After that night, Evander became a persistent, ghostly presence at the edges of my life.
He never approached, never tried to speak again.
Instead, he just watched.
If I worked late, the soft glow of his car's headlights would follow at a distance, trailing me all the way to the entrance of my apartment building.
Some mornings, I'd find an insulated food container left by my door, still warm to the touch.
Inside would be breakfast—creamy shrimp and crab bisque, the kind I'd loved as a kid.
The rich, savory smell was a direct hit to memories I was trying to forget.
But I never touched them.
Miranda told me, through careful signing, that he often lingered at the mouth of our alley for hours, just standing there.
I'd nod, take another bite of my bland sandwich, and sigh.
I didn't kno
