Michael touched the scarf like it might vanish.

For forty-four years, he had dreamed of that color.

A red scarf.

A woman’s voice.

A train whistle.

Then nothing.

His wife whispered, “Michael, what is happening?”

The old woman’s tears fell freely now.

“Your father took you from me,” she said. “He told me you were sent away. He told you I was gone.”

Michael’s breath broke.

All his life, he had believed his mother had left him.

But she had been standing on the same platform every year on his birthday, hoping one day he would pass through.

He looked at the photograph again.

The little boy was smiling.

The mother was holding him like he was her whole world.

Michael stepped toward her.

“Say my name again,” he whispered.

And when she did, he finally remembered her voice.