She didn’t. Donna’s arms were locked tight around the tattered, stuffed bear. Her fingers gripped its cloth ear; her eyes didn’t lift. Her body seemed folded in on itself, small and motionless except for the slight twitch of her thumb stroking the corner of the blanket tucked around the bear.
Brian stayed crouched, not moving closer. “I used to know someone,” he said softly, “who sang that song.”
Donna’s shoulders stiffened just a little. Her head tilted slightly as if she heard something familiar in his voice, but she didn’t speak. Her eyes flicked toward him just for a second, then dropped again to the sidewalk.
Brian waited, then asked carefully, “Do you… have a son?”
For a moment, nothing. Then she nodded, barely.
“Yes,” she whispered. “His name is Leo.”
It was a whisper soaked in memory—half certain, half dreaming. Brian felt his chest tighten, a strange, trembling breath catching in his throat. His heart kicked hard against his ribs. He hadn’t expected her to answer, not like that, not with that name.
He didn’t speak; he couldn’t. His hand slowly pressed against his chest, steadying his breath as the name echoed in his head like a bell ringing through fog. Leo. No one knew that. No one out here, no one in this world she lived in now.
The silence stretched between them. Donna still hadn’t looked at him fully. She stared at the bear, rocking it again, whispering words too soft to catch.
“I lost him,” she said suddenly, her voice raw and distant. “But I hear him in my sleep.”
Brian watched her lips tremble. She wasn’t crying, not exactly, but something inside her was splintering.
“He cries,” she continued, more to the bear than to Brian. “And then it stops. Every night. Like a ghost.”
Her breath hitched. She began to tremble, shoulders curling inward like she was bracing against something no one else could see. Panic, not loud but deep. A tremor working through her hands, her chest, her voice.
Brian didn’t move closer. He didn’t reach out.
“I don’t want to scare you,” he said gently. “I just…” His voice caught. “He’s not a ghost. He’s very real. And he misses you.”
Donna blinked, her fingers pausing against the bear’s fabric. Her eyes, still lowered, seemed suddenly wet. But she didn’t speak again.
Brian stood slowly, watching her for a moment longer. Then he took one step back, just one.
“I’ll come back tomorrow,” he said, “if that’s okay.”
No answer. But her grip on the bear loosened, just slightly. And as he walked away, the cup of tea still sat between them, untouched but no longer ignored.
The apartment was small but warm, tucked into a quiet corner of the city far from the cold sidewalks where Donna had been living. Brian had arranged everything: an on-call nurse, gentle lighting, soft bedding, and a stocked kitchen with chamomile tea and honey. Nothing grand, nothing overwhelming—just safety, peace.
Donna sat on the edge of the bed, hands folded tightly in her lap. She hadn’t spoken much since arriving, only nodded quietly when shown around. Her eyes moved slowly over the room, pausing at the bookshelf filled with children’s stories and the extra blanket draped neatly over the armchair.
Brian stood nearby, not too close. He didn’t say much either. For now, silence felt more honest than words.
The next afternoon, Leo arrived, his small backpack slung over one shoulder and a stuffed bear cradled in his arms. It was frayed at the ears, with one button eye hanging by a thread, but he held it like it was made of gold. He stepped into the apartment slowly, eyes scanning every corner.
Then he saw her. Donna was sitting by the window, sunlight catching the pale strands of her hair. She looked up as the door opened. Their eyes met.
She didn’t recognize him. Not yet. Her expression stayed calm, polite even, but blank, until Leo walked forward, saying nothing, and gently placed his bear beside hers on the bed.
Two bears, nearly identical.
Donna stared, her breath caught in her throat. Her hands lifted, trembling, and hovered above the two toys before finally settling on them, one in each palm. She ran her fingers over the familiar fabric, the matching stitched smiles, the worn-out seams.
Something shifted in her chest—a warmth, a pull. Her voice came out in a whisper. “Why? Do I feel like I know you?”
Leo didn’t answer. He just stepped forward, and in that small, certain way only children can manage, he wrapped his arms around her.
She froze. Then, slowly, achingly, she returned the embrace. Her arms folded around his small body, and her face buried into his shoulder. Her body began to shake. No words, no sound, just the kind of silent weeping that rises from something deep and old and long buried.
Brian stood in the doorway, watching, his throat tight, eyes glassy. It wasn’t a perfect reunion, not yet, but it was real, and it was beginning.
That night, Donna slept in the bedroom for the first time. Curled under the quilt someone had knit by hand, the stuffed bears were tucked beside her on the pillow. In the living room, Brian sat quietly on the couch, listening to the soft hum of the heater, the occasional sound of cars passing below.
At some point, a small cry came from the bedroom. Not loud, not panicked, just a single name. “Leo.”
She didn’t know she’d said it out loud. Inside the room, Donna stirred in her sleep. Her body jerked lightly, her forehead damp; her breath came faster.
Then, the memories came. Flash after flash. A car. Headlights. The screech of tires. Her arms reaching out. A child’s voice crying, Mommy. The sound of glass. Then silence. Darkness. And after that, nothing. Until now.
She woke with a gasp, sitting bolt upright. Her hand clutched the blanket like a lifeline. Her eyes were wide, wet, frantic. Then her gaze fell on the two bears beside her. Her chest broke open.
“Leo,” she whispered again, her voice cracking. “My Leo. Oh my God.”…
