Fostered Heart

TREE PROMISE

I pressed our foreheads together. "Then I'll come for you." A lie we both knew.

Dawn came like a thief. They took Sean first, then Peter.

Sam kicked so hard they carried her. Alex went limp—a silent protest. Then it was Cyn's turn. The agent reached for her.

"Don't you dare touch her!" I wrenched her behind me. My heart hammered against my ribs.

But Cyn surprised me. She lunged forward, arms locking around my shoulder. "Mikey, please—" Her voice cracked as we hugged. I held on tighter but they pried us apart finger by finger.

Her nails scraped my arms. "Mikey!"

The car door slammed loudly. That was a trauma I could not relive. Her palm pressed against the window. I ran after them, could not care much of the Pavement burning my feet. Air sawed through my lungs.

"CYN!"

The car turned the corner and so was it gone. My fists hit concrete until blood smeared the asphalt.

It didn't hurt, nothing would ever hurt this much again.

The house smelled like bleach with no cinnamon nor laughter. Just white walls and silence. I was later told we all have to leave the house and be put into a foster home. The trauma was never ending soon, I imagined.

I took a photo of us from Maa's Bible and the knife-sharp promise between my ribs screaming "Find her."

One week later, I played hooky. The bus ride back to our neighborhood took forever. Our house stood empty.

A "For Sale" sign stabbed the front lawn. I ran to the oak tree.

*Our* tree—the one where I'd promised: "If we get separated, wait here." Bark bit into my palm as I leaned against it. No Cyn. No note. Just wind through dead leaves.

I slid down the trunk. The photo crumpled in my fist.

Four years passed in a blur as I turned eighteen at a diner counter. Black coffee with no cake.

A letter arrived that afternoon. It was Mrs. Abigail's obituary. No cause of death listed. The funeral was small. No flowers —just an empty casket and too many questions.

I stood in the back scanning faces hoping she would come.

The service ended but no Cyn.

I turned to leave— Then I heard it. A laugh— light—familiar. Definitely hers. My pulse roared. I spun around and the laugh echoed behind me—that bright, bell-like sound I would know anywhere, even in the dark—even after four years.

I turned so fast my shoes scraped against gravel. The cemetery stretched out around me, all crumbling headstones and wilted flowers. A handful of mourners lingered near Mrs. Abigail's casket, their black clothes blending into the dusk.

Unfortunately, no Cyn. Just the wind playing tricks on me—again. I shoved my hands into my pockets, fingers brushing the worn edges of the photo I carried everywhere—the one of us sitting on the porch steps, Cyn's yellow sweater sleeves swallowing her hands, my arm slung over her shoulders like I could protect her from anything.

I had spent four years chasing shadows. Checking every blonde head on crowded sidewalks. Following strangers who smelled like her—vanilla and that strawberry shampoo she loved.

And now, standing at Maa's funeral with my ribs cracked open all over again, I was still imagining her. I took one last look at the casket.

"Sorry, Maa," I whispered. "I lost her." Then I walked away.

The diner was my second home. Fluorescent lights buzzed overhead as I slid into my usual booth. The vinyl seat stuck to my jeans.

Marlene, the waitress who'd been working here since the Mesozoic era, didn't bother with a menu. Just slid a cup of black coffee across the table.

"You look like hell, kid." "Feel worse." I smothered lightly, not enough to bother the lady.

She snorted and tossed a napkin at me. "Wipe your face before you scare the customers." I dragged my sleeve across my eyes. Didn't realize they were wet.

The bell above the door jingled. Marlene turned to greet the new customer. "Sit anywhere, hon—" Her coffee pot hit the floor with a crash. I looked up. And the world stopped.

There, haloed in the doorway by the dying sunset, stood Cyn. My Cyn—Older. The baby fat still not far gone from her cheeks. But those eyes—still the same glittering stars that had wrecked me at four years old.

She froze when she saw me. Her lips parted. No sound came out.

I stood so fast the table rattled. Coffee sloshed over the rim of my cup, burning my hand. I didn't feel it. I couldn't feel anything but the earthquake in my chest. "Cyn?" My voice cracked like I was fourteen again, screaming her name down an empty road. She took a step back. No!?

I moved without thinking, rounding the table and reaching for her. Her flinch stopped me cold. Her eyes darted to the exit. She's scared—Of me?!

The realization gutted me. Marlene cleared her throat. "You two know each other?"

Cyn's fingers twisted in the hem of her sweater. Not yellow anymore. Gray. Washed out. Like someone had bleached the sun right out of her.

"We—" Her voice was softer than I remembered. "We grew up together."

Together?!! The word hung between us, heavy with everything she wasn't saying. I forced my hands to unclench. "Can we talk?" She hesitated then nodded toward a corner booth. "Five minutes." It was more than I deserved.

The silence was a living thing. Cyn sat across from me, back rigid, fingers tracing the rim of her water glass—avoiding my eyes.

I memorized the changes—the new scar above her eyebrow, the way she bit her bottom lip when she was nervous, the dark circles under her eyes.

"You're taller," she said finally. "Not the only thing that's changed." I forced a ghost of a smile. "Still bad at small talk, Mikey?"

Mikey!! The old nickname sent a bolt of lightning down my spine. I leaned forward. "Where did they take you?"

Her shoulders hunched. "Foster home in out of town."

"Did they—" My throat closed around the question. "Did they hurt you?" She read it anyway. Shook her head. "It was fine." A lie. I knew her tells. But before I could push, she asked, "You?" "Three different homes." I shrugged. "Aged out last month."

Her eyes flicked to the duffel bag at my feet—all my worldly possessions. "Where are you staying?" "Here and there." Another lie. The truth was the backseat of a '98 Honda Civic parked behind the diner which I used at my workplace.

Cyn's fingers tightened around her glass. "You came to Maa's funeral." "Of course."

"I almost didn't." She stared at her reflection in the water. "Couldn't face it. Felt like... if I didn't see the casket, it wouldn't be real."

I understood that. For four years, I'd kept Maa alive in my head—her voice, her smell, the way she'd hum off-key while making pancakes. Now she was just... gone, like we'd never existed.

Cyn looked up suddenly. "Why were you late?" "What?" "To the funeral. You came in after it started."

I hesitated. "Got held up." I could not help but tender another lie. The truth? I had stood outside the cemetery gates for twenty minutes, working up the courage to face another loss.

Cyn studied me like she could see right through me. Maybe she could. She always could. She reached into her purse and slid a business card across the table.

"I work here," she said. "If you ever... you know—need help, need me. The card read "Greenwood Library" with her name underneath—Cynthia Ellis.

Not the name we'd shared at Mrs. Abigail's. Something twisted in my gut. She stood abruptly. "I should go." Panic clawed up my throat. "Wait—" My hand caught hers—electric. Her breath hitched.

For one heartbeat, we were kids again—sneaking cookies before dinner, hiding under the porch during thunderstorms, pinky-promising we'd always stick together. Then she pulled away. "Take care of yourself, Mikey." And just like that, she was gone. I sat there until closing time.

Marlene eventually kicked me out with a stale muffin and a warning not to "mope on company property."

The Honda welcomed me with its familiar smells—gasoline and old fries. I fished the photo from my pocket, the edges frayed from four years of handling.

Cyn's smile beamed up at me, frozen in time. I traced her face with my thumb. Then flipped the card over. On the back, in her neat handwriting:

"I still wait by the oak tree sometimes. Just in case." My heart stuttered. I turned the key in the ignition. The engine roared to life. I knew where I was going.