My nephew came to live with me for the whole summer. From the moment he arrived, he always wore black gloves. Every day. Even when he was inside the house. When I finally asked him why, he gave me a small, practiced smile and said, “Uncle… my hands are just sensitive.” At first, I didn’t question it. But one morning, I quietly pushed open the bathroom door. He was standing at the sink. The gloves were off. And the moment I saw his palms… my heart almost stopped.

And every time I asked, I got the same perfectly rehearsed response.

“My hands just get cold.”

Like a line he’d memorized.

One night after dinner I heard the faint sound of running water from the hallway.

At first I ignored it.

But then I heard something else.

Scrubbing.

Slow, repetitive scrubbing.

Like someone desperately trying to wash something away.

I walked quietly toward the bathroom.

The door was slightly open.

Light spilled through the crack.

I pushed the door open.

Liam stood at the sink.

The gloves were lying on the counter.

For the first time since he’d arrived.

He was scrubbing his hands hard under the faucet.

At first I only noticed how pale they were.

Then I saw the skin.

Raw.

Red.

Covered with jagged marks like something had been pressed into them again and again.

But what froze me in place was the center of his palm.

Burned into the skin was a symbol.

Perfectly shaped.

A police insignia.

Not ink.

Not a tattoo.

A brand.

The water kept running as he scrubbed uselessly at the mark.

Finally he noticed me in the mirror.

Our eyes met.

“You weren’t supposed to see that,” he whispered.

My throat tightened.

“What happened to you, Liam?”

He didn’t answer.