old station clock holding fifty-six roses.
In that moment, I felt twenty-three again.
Not young.
Just terrified.
At precisely eleven o’clock, an elderly man slowly rose from a bench near the far wall.
For one impossible second, my heart stopped.
He was thin.
Stooped.
Ancient.
I allowed myself to believe.
Then he removed his cap.
“Mary.”
I recognized him immediately.
“Adrian?”
He was carrying an old olive-green military duffel bag.
Across the faded fabric was James’s name.
I nearly dropped the bouquet.
“Mary, please—”
“Where is he?”
Adrian stopped.
“Where
