The Scars He Left Me
Language: en
The customer I was picking up for this late-night ride was my brother, the one who’d cut ties with me nearly five years ago. I watched the two of them—him, my brother, and the crying girl in his arms—through the small rectangle of the rearview mirror. He was whispering gentle reassurances to her, swaying slightly with the alcohol. “Driver, take us to The Haven at Southwood, number one.” He looked up, and our eyes met. The command choked in his throat. “Iris? Is that... you?” He stared, unable to speak, the tremor in his pupils the only sign of his shock. I said nothing. I put the car…