It’s the anniversary of the bombings and she is sitting on the edge of her bed clutching a photograph: her son. She’s rocking back and forth, back and forth, in silent agony. All year round’s painful but this day’s the worst. Her face is the picture of someone crying yet no tears flow. She cried herself dry long ago.
In the photograph her son is smiling. She’s not smiled since that terrible day. She wonders now where her son would be if he’d lived. She wonders where it all went wrong. Could she have stopped him killing all those people?