I stared at the man beside my bed, and the boy on the swings stared back through the years. The same dark hair, the same small scar above his left eyebrow, the same wide, frightened eyes. “You were the boy who pushed me,” I whispered. Julian’s face crumpled. He sank into the chair and covered his mouth with one hand. “I was nine years old, Lena,” he said. “I was playing. I never meant for you to fall.”

My hands shook against the blanket as my vision swam with tears. Before I could speak again, the door opened and a nurse stepped in carrying a white envelope. “Doctor, this came for Mrs. Hayes this morning, marked urgent,” she said quietly. I recognized the handwriting on the front, though I had not seen it since I was a child. It belonged to the woman who had raised Julian, and my name sat across it in thin, shaking letters.