“Remember when we used to go on bike rides in Reno?” Anthony asked.
“We’d pack snacks and drinks in a backpack… stop somewhere quiet… get our feet wet in the river.”
I remembered.
“I want to do that again,” he said.
And all I could say was, “I want that too.”
There was something in his voice. The way he remembered it—not just the ride, but the feeling of it.
That hit me.
Because those were just weekend rides. Just something to fill the time.
But to him, they stuck.
That’s how you know it mattered.
When the memory is theirs—not yours.
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