What Never Was Cannot Be Recovered

He opened the door to a stranger—one who stepped back, guarded, down two steps at the sight of him. He stepped forward, extending his trembling hand toward her, but grasped the cold iron railing instead. Her right foot moved backward, searching for the last step, her eyes still fixed on the stranger’s face. He broke the long silence between them, his voice quivering and eyes watering. “It’s… it’s been thirty-two years.” A tear fell to the ground. Gripping the stair rail with her right hand, she moved to steady herself. She squinted, taking in his shriveled, back-lit frame. Her posture stayed rigid, her averted eyes falling to her only support—the concrete step. He stepped back and opened his stance. Her fingers tightened on the rail, knuckles white against the metal. She swallowed, the motion small and deliberate. Neither of them moved.