It’s been two decades since he was last here. He’s walked up and down these halls a dozen times the past week. Still, he struggles to reconcile each lighted corner, each gentle turn to the orphanage that was once both his sanctuary and his hell on earth.
The nuns are calling him Mr. Martinez now, the wealthy contractor. He hardly recognizes them.
The bullies who called him pipsqueak are gone. Even the shapeless stains of his blood on the walls have been painted over—
He barely flinches when the wrecking ball hits.
The groan of crumbling concrete still feels liberating.
*Inspired by the prompt alma mater from The Daily Post.