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Just like him, she didn't have many possessions. Almost no toys, and certainly no dolls. He could see why she'd been so hung up on that one pink princess—she'd probably never had anything of the sort. She had very few clothes as well, with some she'd clearly outgrown and some that were too big for her small frame.
"Home?" she asked sleepily as he laid her down on her bed, startling Michele from his thoughts.
"Home," he attempted a smile that she could not return. Instead, she just sighed.
Did children sigh?
"Thank you for today," she told him in a small voice, watching him with big, innocent eyes. "Thank you for the drawing," she continued, and before he could reply, he felt her lips on his cheek. "I'll keep it safe," she declared with more pathos than anyone living in her conditions should have.
"I know you will, Zia," he added sadly, taking her in for one last time. "It's time for me to go."
The sadness was apparent on her face, but so was another thing—resignation. She'd known it was coming. This was a child used to people abandoning her, and that broke him a little.
"Maybe we'll meet again someday," he tried to placate her, though he knew it was unlikely.
She nodded, plastering a smile on her face, her hands clutching at her little drawing.
"Goodbye, Zia," he whispered as he laid a light kiss on her forehead. He heard a ghost of a goodbye behind him, but he was out of the room before he could come up with worse ideas—like confronting her family and demanding they took better care of her.
Yet, as he'd seen with Nicolo, her uncle, it might all be in vain.
* * *
He…He couldn't process.
The memory was like a flash, his head throbbing as he remembered her sweet, innocent voice. But also as he remembered that side of himself—the one he'd buried so deep within he didn't think existed anymore.
He pivoted.
The drawing in one hand, he stared at her form on the bed, recalling the outrage he'd felt, years before, when he'd seen her abandoned, hungry and alone. When she'd thought no one wanted to keep her.
Discomfort stabbed at his chest, and he brought his fist over his heart to alleviate the ghost of a pain that seemed to make its home there.
How? Why?
The questions continued in his mind, the answers all out of reach.
Had she known? Had she recognized him when he himself had buried all memories of before deep within his mind, ever to see the light of the day?
Had she…?
Otherwise why still have this?
The sheet of paper itself was worn, the edges of the page already yellowed and some of the colors smudged. It looked like something that had been handled one too many times—looked at one too many times.
It struck Michele that though he'd locked away that part of himself deep within, forgetting all about his past existence, it hadn't been the same for her.
At least that one interaction must have affected her strongly enough for her to keep that drawing for years to come—decades to come.
As the memories reached the surface, he could once more pinpoint the encounter. It had been at her father's funeral.
Thirteen years ago.
Good God. Thirteen years.
Had she held onto the drawing for that long?
Yet looking around her room once more and accounting for all her belongings—all herfewbelongings—he realized it must be something incredibly important to her.
