NUMBER ONE

She remembered every detail, except their names

She had tried to count. 
More than once. 

Usually in the quiet moments,  
when the world had settled 
and sleep hovered just out of reach. 

She remembered them by shape, 
or scent, 
the way they walked. 
Or didn’t. 

By the texture of their skin. 
Or the silence they left behind. 

She remembered how they entered. 
What they asked for. 
What she gave. 

Faces were vague. 
But the hands remained. 
A crooked finger. 
A freckled shoulder. 
A chipped tooth. 

One had a laugh that made her want to scream. 
Another never spoke. 

But names, never. 

That was the thing. 
What she couldn’t hold. 
Not a single full name. 

Maybe a syllable. 
Maybe a borrowed nickname. 

But even then,
they slipped through her, 
like water through a colander. 

Except for Number One. 

She remembered him too well. 

And it made all the rest 
easier to forget.