All that remained were his last photographs. Surely, they held a message? Some final trace of him to quiet my anguish; a response to everything I should have said.
If only I’d…. But, no. It is what it is. He’d have known I hadn’t meant to leave, that I’d be back.
There it was! A sparrow looking-in through the window. A reprimand? Or forgiveness? Was I the bird, or he?