The Threads We Leave Behind

The Watchman tossed and turned in his narrow bed, the chill of the morning doing little to quiet his restless mind. The child’s question echoed in the corners of his thoughts, gnawing at him with an insistence that no amount of pulling the blanket over his head could muffle. "What if the memories weren’t mine to forget?" The words struck like a splinter he couldn’t pry loose, sharp and nagging.

At his feet, Moss, his ever-faithful border collie, let out a low, impatient whine. The dog had been watching him with an intensity that suggested he shared the Watchman’s unease. Finally, Moss stood, padded over to the bedside, and pawed at his master’s arm. The Watchman groaned, sitting up and rubbing his face. "All right, Moss. I’ll bite. You win. No one gets any rest, apparently."