Just a hard, immediate wrongness that moved through him before his mind caught up. Then it did. Sarah’s scar was gone. Jack stared. The place where it should have been — high across her upper back, cutting diagonally toward her shoulder blade — was bare. Smooth. Unbroken. Nothing. For a second, he genuinely thought he might be misremembering.
That grief had distorted something. That time had moved it, softened it, blurred it into the wrong place in his mind. But no. He remembered cleaning that wound. Remembered the gravel. The antiseptic. The angry red line it had left behind for years after. Remembered kissing the edge of it once while Sarah laughed and told him he was being weird.