“They cut your hair too short,” I murmured softly, brushing it back the way I had done thousands of times during our marriage.
And that’s when I saw it.
Just above his right ear, beneath the thin gray hair, something unfamiliar appeared — faint ink, slightly blurred with age.
A tattoo.
I leaned closer. The ink was old, softened with time. It wasn’t new. Hidden under his hair were two sets of numbers separated by decimal points.
Coordinates.
I pulled back, stunned.
“You never had a tattoo,” I whispered. “I would have known.”
You don’t miss something like that on someone you’ve slept beside for forty-two years. But Thomas had always kept his hair longer. Now, with it cut short for the funeral, the mark was finally visible.
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