The dining hall suddenly went quiet, as it usually did when something unusual happened. So Daniel looked up.
A nurse entered, guiding a new resident into the room.
The woman walked cautiously, holding a white cane in one hand while her other hand was gently extended in front of her.
Her hair was white and neatly brushed. Her expression was calm, though her brow furrowed with concentration.
Daniel might have returned to his meal, but something caught the light as she moved.
The red bracelet. His breath caught.
The color was dulled by time, the surface worn, but he knew it. He had chosen it and had held it in his hands before fastening it around a slender teenage wrist.
His heart began to pound so loudly he feared others could hear it.
His chair scraped against the floor as he pushed it back, but he did not immediately step forward.
He stood there, watching her. It cannot be, he thought.
His hands trembled more noticeably now. He took one cautious step toward her, then stopped again. What if he was wrong? What if memory was playing a cruel trick on him?
She turned her head slightly, as if sensing movement.
Daniel swallowed hard. “Catherine?” he said, his voice barely more than a breath.
“She can’t see if you have not yet figured that out,” the nurse said curtly.
Ignoring her, Daniel asked again, “Catherine, is that you?”
The room seemed to shrink, and the woman stiffened.
The nurse glanced between them, confused.
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