“Mister? You’re Crying.”
“Mister?”
Julian flinched, turning fast—like he’d been caught doing something shameful.
A little girl stood beside the bench.
Six or seven, maybe.
Red coat, clearly secondhand, sleeves swallowing her hands.
Dark curls escaping a knit hat with a lopsided pom-pom.
She looked at him with the calm seriousness only children can pull off.
“You’re crying,” she said, as if she were pointing out that it was snowing.
Julian cleared his throat. “No, I’m not.”
His voice betrayed him.
