One spring afternoon, I replaced the welcome mat where Darren had slipped during the struggle.
The old one had been collected as evidence and eventually returned.
I threw it away.
The new mat simply said:
WELCOME.
Nothing clever.
No warning.
No joke about keys.
I had no desire to turn my home into a monument to what happened.
It was a house.
I wanted it to feel like one.
When I finished placing the mat, I stood in the doorway.
Same position.
One hand on the frame.
For an instant memory returned.
Darren.
Black vest.
Gun.
Final warning.
My chest tightened.
Then a kid rode past on a bicycle.
A dog barked.
Mrs. Bell shouted at somebody about speeding.
The moment disappeared.
I looked up at the porch beam.
There was no visible bullet damage anymore.
Fresh wood.
Fresh paint.
Nobody walking past would know.
That felt right.
Scars do not need to remain visible to prove they happened.
