Toast pressed the green cap against her chest and read the stitched W for the hundredth time. A stranger sewed that letter on years ago, then walked away before she could ask why. Now she stood outside the mall stage, sure of only one thing. She wanted to know what the W meant. But she couldn't picture the stranger's face, or even the day it happened. Her only clue was a hole where the memory should be. A woman in a red gown swept past, braid swinging, and stopped when she saw the cap. "You've had that thing forever," Kaylee said. She didn't hug Toast. She never did. "Still chasing your little mystery?" Toast held the cap higher. "You knew me back then. Do you remember who gave it to me?" Kaylee crossed her arms. Her name necklace caught the light. "I remember you crying about a lost hat, and I remember who found it for you." She let the pause stretch, enjoying it. "Ask Waffles. He was there. He's always there." Toast's stomach dropped. She hadn't spoken to Waffles in a long time. But if he held the answer, she had no choice. She found him near the exit sign at the far end of the mall, leaning on the tall metal post like he owned it. Dark glasses. Dark blue cap. He didn't turn when she approached. "Waffles." "Took you long enough." He tipped his head back, still not looking. "Heard you were digging up old stuff." "Kaylee said you were there. The day I got this." Toast showed him the W. Her hands shook. "Who gave it to me?" Waffles finally lowered his glasses. His eyes weren't cruel, just tired. "You really don't remember?" "No. That's the whole problem." He pushed off the post and studied her for a long moment. Then he sighed. "It wasn't a stranger, Toast. It was your brother. He stitched that W himself before he left. W for the name he gave you." Waffles tapped the exit sign beside him. "He walked out that door and told me to keep an eye on you till you were ready to ask." Toast couldn't breathe. "I don't have a brother." "You did." Waffles slid his glasses back up. "You made yourself forget. All of it. The hat's the only piece that survived." The mall noise faded. Toast gripped the cap so hard her fingers hurt. The W wasn't a puzzle from a stranger. It was a message from family she had erased. Her search hadn't stalled. It had just cracked open something she buried on purpose. "Where is he now?" she asked. Waffles shrugged. "That's your next question. And you're not going to like the answer."

Waffles led Toast to a quiet bench near the mall stage. He crossed his arms and watched her, patient for once. "The memories aren't gone," he said. "You locked them up. They're still in your head. You just have to reach." Toast closed her eyes and tried. She pictured the W. She reached for the man who sewed it. Her brother. But her mind slid off the thought like ice. Blank. She pushed harder. Nothing. Her chest tightened. "I can't. Every time I try, it goes empty." "You're fighting it," Waffles said. He knelt in front of her. "Stop shoving. You buried this on purpose. Your own head is protecting you from it." "Then help me," she snapped. "You were there. Tell me something. Give me a piece." He shook his head. "If I hand it to you, it won't unlock the rest. You have to pull the first thread yourself." He tapped her green cap. "Hold this. Don't think about the letter. Think about his hands doing the stitching." Toast gripped the cap and lowered her head. She stopped chasing the face. She thought only of the needle, the thread, the small pull of each stitch. A sound came first. Humming. Someone humming close to her ear. Then warmth against her back, arms around her, a chin resting on her hat. Her breath caught. "He hummed," she whispered. "He always hummed when he was working. I forgot that. I forgot the sound." "Keep going," Waffles said softly. The memory cracked wider. She saw the cap in his lap. She saw the W taking shape under his fingers. She heard his voice, low and steady. He told her the W stood for something. A word. A promise. But the word slipped away before she could catch it. The rest went dark again. Toast opened her eyes, shaking. Tears ran down her wide face. "I remembered him," she said. "Not everything. But he was real. He held me. He hummed." She laughed, wet and broken. "He was my brother." Waffles sat back on his heels. He almost smiled. "There it is. You broke the lock." But the relief drained fast. Toast pressed the cap to her chest. "The W. He told me what it meant, right then. I heard him say it. And it's gone. That one word is still locked." Her hands curled tight. "I got everything but the answer I came for." Waffles stood. His jaw went hard. "That's because the meaning of the W isn't just a memory. He never finished telling you." He looked toward the exit sign at the far end of the mall. "He left before he could. If you want the whole word, you can't dig it out of your head." Toast rose. "Then where do I get it?" "From him," Waffles said. "You have to find your brother."