He picked it up like it might bite. The sunflower was warm from the concrete. On the back, the faintest scratches: initials, a date—hers, the night they’d promised to try again.
“Sarah?” he called, softer than he meant to. The trees didn’t answer. The bathroom door creaked, then slammed itself shut for the fun of it.
He texted the deputies the pin, the photo, the charm. The older one replied: Stay put. The younger one added: Don’t be a hero.
