By the time Steve St. Pierre noticed the sticker, he was already halfway across the Van Horne overpass. Tunnel vision, no sleep, heading back to Ottawa to say goodbye to his father. His partner pointed it out, letters on a railing: “Alain.” His dad’s name. It was a musician’s promo sticker, nothing more. 

But to Steve, “it was this synchronistic moment.” He took a photo. 

That weekend, he had come home to Montreal for a break after months of caregiving. His father had been diagnosed with cancer, and Steve had been by his side through the final stretch, from diagnosis to death. 

“I was his primary caregiver throughout the entire thing,” he says. That morning, as he walked to the train station to head back, everything blurred—until that small sticker snapped him out of it. “Now every time I walk past it, I touch it,” he says.

By the time Steve St. Pierre noticed the sticker, he was already halfway across the Van Horne overpass. Tunnel vision, no sleep, heading back to Ottawa to say goodbye to his father. His partner pointed it out, letters on a railing: “Alain.” His dad’s name. It was a musician’s promo sticker, nothing more. 

But to Steve, “it was this synchronistic moment.” He took a photo. 

That weekend, he had come home to Montreal for a break after months of caregiving. His father had been diagnosed with cancer, and Steve had been by his side through the final stretch, from diagnosis to death. 

“I was his primary caregiver throughout the entire thing,” he says. That morning, as he walked to the train station to head back, everything blurred—until that small sticker snapped him out of it. “Now every time I walk past it, I touch it,” he says.