The woman from the streetlamp recognized me in moments of clarity, humming the same tune I’d carried in memory without knowing why. Her daughter and I learned how to be siblings as adults, carefully and honestly. There was grief for lost time, but also relief in knowing the truth.
That late-night call taught me something I carry into every shift now: sometimes the person you’re helping isn’t just lost in the dark—they’re holding a missing piece of your own story, waiting for the moment it finds its way home.
