Initials On The Skates
Slowly, I picked up the skates, my fingers tracing the tiny, faded initials my daughter had once carved into the side—her handwriting unmistakable. Each letter felt like a fragile window into a past I both longed to forget and desperately held onto. These skates were the last tangible piece of her before she disappeared without a trace, so how could they possibly have ended up at Mr. Thompson’s garage sale?
Initials On The Skates
Mr. Thompson Approaches
“Are you okay?” Mr. Thompson’s voice cut through the haze of my thoughts, bringing me back to reality. He stepped closer, genuine concern in his eyes, unaware of the heavy meaning those skates held for me but clearly interested. I looked down at the skates once more, then back at him, struggling to find the words to explain what they meant—and why my hands were shaking so uncontrollably.
Mr. Thompson Approaches
