Police eventually returned the left boot.
After forensic photography.
After evidence stipulation about the hiding location.
After both sides agreed high-resolution records and officer testimony would preserve what mattered.
The cut seam made it unusable.
Lucy stared at it.
“Broken.”
“Yes.”
“Fix?”
“We could.”
“Do we have to?”
“No.”
She thought.
“Trash?”
My instinct was to preserve it.
History.
Evidence.
Meaning.
Then I realized that was my need.
“Your choice.”
“Trash.”
We threw it away.
Not ceremonially.
Kitchen garbage.
Lucy watched me tie the bag.
Then asked:
“Can I have purple shoes?”
“Yes.”
We bought purple sneakers.
No one called them brave shoes.
No trauma slogan.
Just purple.
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