One promise. He opened his mouth. Closed it. Tried again.

He almost laughed. Almost cried. Instead, he just breathed.

By 1:47 p.m., he had walked twelve blocks in the rain without remembering a single step. By 2:15, he was sitting on his kitchen floor, back against the fridge, staring at the crack in the wall that looked like a lightning bolt frozen in time.

He picked up his phone. Called his sister. Let it ring until she answered.

Hago — I do. Not I will try. Not I hope. I do.

She had taught him when he was seven, just before she forgot his name. She’d taken his small hands in her wrinkled ones and said, “Mijo, when the world feels like shattered glass, you do the 2.8.1.”