Renata noticed. “Oh, that’s Arvid,” she said casually. “His family moved in after… well, you know.”
I didn’t know.
So I asked.
She said Arvid’s father had passed a year ago. His mom worked nights, barely home. Said the boy had grown up with her neighbor, Goran.
That night, I couldn’t sleep.
I kept thinking of the boy—how he’d looked at me like he recognized something. Or someone. And those pajamas. Matija’s were custom-made. My sister worked in textiles and had those sewn specially for his birthday. There weren’t any others like them.
I told myself it was just coincidence. Maybe the fabric got reused, donated somewhere. But the feeling didn’t go away.