What was I doing?

I had no right to show my face — I was a carrier of pain walking back into a sanctuary that had healed without me.

But the need to simply be in the same room as my blood overrode every argument.

I parked the Aston Martin on the street, drawing stares, and looked up at the brick building — balconies full of thriving potted plants, bicycles chained to the railings.

It was undeniably, achingly real.