A gust of autumn wind swept the intersection and caught the lapels of my coat, blowing it open for a few seconds. The sun struck the silver star pinned to my chest, and it flashed.

Daniel saw it. I watched his eyes track the reflection, and his face twisted into a devastating mix of regret and shame — the magnitude of what he’d thrown away landing all at once.

He took a hesitant step forward, opening his mouth as if to call my name, hoping for some sliver of forgiveness.

I didn’t scowl. I didn’t smile. I felt no surge of triumph, no lingering anger.

My face stayed a mask of plain, absolute indifference — the look you’d give a rain-soaked newspaper in the gutter. The bond, the anger, the pain: all of it severed, cleanly and for good.

He was a ghost, and ghosts don’t register.