There was an old man sitting on a bench in a park a few feet from his wife, his hands on his knees.
The woman was clenching the edge of the bench tightly, trying to put on a mask of indifference as she looked at the scenery before her, trying not to think of the fact that her son will never see the beauty she’s looking at right now. If she can have her son back but have the dark skies in exchange, she’d willingly have no sun at all if it would mean her son would be alive.
But he’s not, and he never will be. Because of his murderer who is sitting, alive and free, just a few feet away from her.