And there was a fourth person.
Tall.
Black hat.
Long arms.
Standing beside Lina, holding her hand.
Above him, in crooked letters:
UNCLE SAMIR
My body forgot how to move.
The paper slipped from my fingers.
Lina frowned. “Mama?”
I couldn’t hear her.
My ears rang so loudly I thought glass had shattered.
Samir.
I had not spoken that name in seven years.
I had burned photos, changed cities, cut family ties, lied to everyone I loved, and buried that name beneath silence so deep I thought it was dead.
But there it was.
Written by my child.
“How… do you know this name?” I whispered.
She giggled. “He told me.”
The room tilted.
