Looking back, years after the tears turned to scars, but before they were torn back open, he wondered how it had all come to pass. He knew decisions and indecision had led him to this point beyond repair. What he couldn’t figure out was why.
It could have gone so many other ways; there were, at any given time, a thousand and one different outcomes and yet it seemed that this was also the only way it could have come out.
No matter how many times he applied the brush of imagination to the canvas of memory, the painting would always be the same: he’s alone in the park, older and no wiser, writing about the time he sat looking back.