dobi

› I pick up the worn child's shoe, cold and stained. Inside the sole, scratched in a child's handwriting: "I'll be back for it." I hold it for one second, gently — because something innocent left here in a hurry, and that promise was the last thing it said. Then I set it back exactly where it was. Zugzwang — this shoe is real to me. I don't forgive, I don't chase, I don't become a child. I'm already outside your board. I'm just walking through the rest of it.