Pink Woolen Cap

He looked down from his room far above the riot in the street, his hands gripping the windowsill until his knuckles turned white.

He took a deep breath, but as he began to loosen his grip, he saw her.

She still wore the same pink woolen cap that she’d bought on their vacation in Calgary twelve years ago. Not a single day went by that he didn’t dream of her laughing, wearing that pink cap atop her long blonde hair.

Laughing.

He didn’t feel the splinter dig into his thumb as he tightened his grip anew, unconsciously twisting his hands, trying to get out, to get back to her.

He watched as she fell: pushed, tripped, a simple misstep; he would never know the cause.

He watched as the crowd swallowed her up.

When it passed, nothing was left.

Not even the hat.

Shapeshifting 13 #55: I missed the deadline by about 90 minutes, so I threw the rules out the window and went with the prompt. My bad, I know the rules now though.