The turnout was thirty-five people. He was immensely proud that there were so many volunteers for the event. As his gaze turned past the first few people, he thought he saw a familiar face.
No, it couldn’t be, he said to himself. He looked again. The silvery hair was unmistakable. As was his gait.
He walked quickly. When he saw the face clearly, he was stunned. Grandpa. He had run away from home; from his bullying son.
“Grandpa,” he called out. The old man turned his eyes towards the source of the voice. He barely seemed to recognize his grandson.