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I turned.
Lucas Ashford.
It had been years. He'd aged considerably — deep lines at the corners of his eyes, hair going grey at the temples. He was leaning on a metal crutch, his right leg slightly stiff at the knee.
He stood there looking at me with an expression I didn't have a name for. Cautious, maybe. Weathered.
"It's been a while," he said.
"It has."
A silence settled between us.
He shifted his weight on the crutch. His knuckles whitened slightly around the handle.
"I've been reassigned — administrative work, this area. I only arrived recently."
He stopped.
"Are you — doing all right?"
"Yes. Quite well, actually."
He looked as though he wanted to say something else. His mouth opened.
"Mum!"
A small figure came bursting out of the play area at a run and launched herself at me. She had something gripped in both hands — a stuffed bear she'd won from the claw machine — and her face was shining.
"Mum, look! I got it on the first try!"
I laughed and smoothed her hair back, pulling a wet wipe from my bag to dab at the sweat on her forehead.
"That's brilliant. Shall we go for dinner?"
"Yes!"
I took her hand and stood up.
I didn't look at Lucas's face, but I heard the sound of his crutch hitting the floor.
"Sylvia —"
His voice had gone hoarse. Something in it had cracked.
I turned slightly toward him.
"We should head off." I inclined my head — a small, civil goodbye. "Take care."
We walked away.
After a while, my daughter tugged at my hand and looked back over her shoulder.
"Mum, do you know that man?"
"We knew each other once. Not very well."
She thought about this.
"Then why was he crying?"
I didn't turn around.
The last of the evening sun was stretched across the pavement ahead of us, our shadows long and soft.
"Maybe," I said, tucking the bear under her arm, "the wind got in his eyes."
The smell of something baking drifted from a shop we passed — bread, warm and sweet.
Life was going on.
Tomorrow morning she wanted noodle soup from the place downstairs.
I'd have to wake her up early.