Riley saw him first at the bakery.
She had walked the boys down to the village for bread and a new pencil case for Andy, who had lost the old one somewhere between the car and the kitchen.
Colin came with them, saying he needed tea, and while the boys argued over a bun he chose a tin of chamomile from the shelf by the door.
The morning was bright for once, and the boys were chattering about the fox and the rabbit, and for about ten minutes Riley almost believed the world had decided to leave her alone.
Then she saw the bench across the street.
A man sat on it with a folded newspaper on his knee. White shirt, sleeves rolled to the elbow, hair cut short the way she had always liked it. He wasn't reading. He was looking at the bakery window, and when he lifted his head and found her face, his mouth curved in the smallest smile.
He raised one hand. Not a wave. A greeting, the way you'd greet someone who had been expected for a long time.
