Jake wiped his face.
“He kept a photograph of the two of you. He told me about the street, the bicycle, the pond, and the promise.”
The room blurred.
“Where is he?”
Jake looked down.
That was when I knew.
“No.”
“Leo got sick five years ago.”
“No.”
“It was a rare form of cancer. He fought it for almost two years.”
I covered my mouth.
“He died three years ago.”
My knees weakened.
Jake reached for me.
I stepped back.
“Don’t touch me.”
He froze.
The chapel had become so quiet that I could hear people breathing.
Jake held the photograph against his chest.
“Before he died, he asked me to find you.”
