I laughed through my tears because we were five years old.
But I never forgot.
For years, I waited for letters.
None came.
My family moved once and then again.
By high school, Leo had become a story I told only when someone asked about the scar on my knee from the bicycle crash he had caused.
By college, he had become a memory.
At 25, I worked in a bakery called Honey & Grain.
I decorated wedding cakes, argued with delivery drivers, and went home every evening smelling like butter and sugar.
One rainy afternoon, a man walked in five minutes before closing.
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