His Lost Little Lady
This time, I didn't chase him, didn't clutch at his sleeve, didn't sob and beg him to stay.
I just stood there, staring after him, until his footsteps grew fainter. The sting in my nose began to spread, sharp, hot, and unrelenting.
The photos had only just been developed, and already they lay in shreds. But the face on them was already carved into my memory.
So this was Winnie Leigh. She was beautiful.
I clamped a hand over my mouth to keep from breaking into sobs, but the tears spilled anyway, rolling down my hand like beads from a broken necklace.