For a moment, I just stood there, staring.
He reminded me of that day—frozen fingers, a snowstorm, and the warmth of rough hands guiding me to safety. I had spent years wondering who he was. Now, here he was again.
I lost my parents at five. After that, I bounced through the foster system—alone, unwanted. But I pushed through, worked hard, and became a surgeon.
Still, I never forgot the man who saved me when I got lost in the woods at eight. He vanished after getting me help. I never even knew his name.
Until today.
At a subway station, I saw him—older, worn, homeless—but the anchor tattoo confirmed it. “Is it really you? Mark?”
He remembered me. I bought him food, clothes, a motel room. He resisted, but I insisted.
The next day, he told me his heart was failing. His last wish? To see the ocean.
We planned to go, but just as we were leaving, I got called into emergency surgery. A little girl needed saving. Mark understood.
When I returned, he was gone. Peaceful. Still.
I couldn’t take him to the ocean.
But I buried him by the shore.
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