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But this man — this stranger — mourned her like he’d lost someone irreplaceable. I saw it in the way his shoulders trembled. In the reverence of his silence.
After three months, I couldn’t take it anymore. I got out of my car and walked toward him.
“Excuse me,” I said, my voice sharper than I intended. “I’m Sarah’s husband. Can you tell me who you are?”
He stood slowly. Tall. Broad. Beard to his chest. Tattoos down both arms. The kind of man Sarah would’ve crossed the street to avoid. But his eyes were red. He’d been crying.
“I’m sorry,” he said softly. “I didn’t mean to intrude. I just needed to say thank you.”
“Thank you for what?”
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