My friend Dr. Simon’s house wasn’t far. He opened the door, instantly frowning at the sight of the old man leaning on my arm.
“I need your help, Simon,” I said, skipping the small talk.
As he worked, he rolled up the man’s sleeve to check his arm… and froze.
I saw it too. A tattoo of two swallows inked on his forearm.
Simon’s face went pale. “This… this can’t be.”
My heart pounded. “What? What is it?”
“Last year, the police came looking for someone. A missing person. They asked if we had treated a man with a tattoo like this.”
The old man’s breath hitched. “Someone was looking for me?”
Simon grabbed his phone. “I need to make a call.”
“Wait,” the old man pleaded. “Before you call anyone, tell me… what kind of man was I? Did they say something? Was I… good?”
The old man’s face crumpled. “Children? I have children?”
“Two,” Simon confirmed gently. “A boy and a girl, according to the report.”
Tears streamed down the man’s weathered face. “All this time, I’ve been walking past playgrounds, watching families, feeling this… ache inside me. Like something precious was stolen. And now…”
“Now we can help you find your way back to them,” I said, tears brimming in my eyes.
His hands trembled violently. “What if they don’t recognize me? What if I don’t recognize them?”
“The heart remembers,” Simon said, “even when the mind forgets.”
Within an hour, two officers arrived. They examined the man, asking gentle but urgent questions. Then, one of them turned to me and Simon.
