I read about him a lot, how his auburn hair stood out in the sepia photographs. I read about how he played at lunch and cheered with delight when he won a game of football. I read about how he lost what was closest to him. I read about when he won a red bike at a fairground game. I read about a fire that ended a town. I read about his new life as the only survivor. I read about the black and blue that came with new memories. I read about the murder of his abusers. I read the news article about tree that once hung a body. I visited that tree that still held a bike. I read his story and I never told it again, as that bike was his grave, that only time would mend.