“Excuse me.”
The woman turned.
“Where did you get that?”
She looked down at herself.
“This?”
“Yes.”
Her expression changed slightly.
“I’ve had it for years.”
“Where did you get it?”
My hands were shaking.
Michael called my name behind me.
I ignored him.
I pulled out my phone.
It took me three tries to open the right photo.
Then I held it up.
Nora at 16, wearing the turquoise cover-up with the yellow sun.
The woman stopped moving.
She stared at the picture.
Then at me.
Then past me.
Her hand closed around my wrist.
“Put that away,” she said quietly. “She can’t know you’re here.”
I felt the world tilt.
“Who?”
The woman’s eyes filled with something I couldn’t read.
Fear, maybe.
Or pity.
Then she whispered, “Nora.”
I turned.
At first, I didn’t see her.
There were too many people.
Then I looked through the cafe window.
A young woman in a black apron was carrying two plates toward a table.
She had dark hair pulled into a low ponytail.
She was thinner than Nora had been.
Older, obviously.
Her face had changed.
But not enough.
I knew my daughter.
My knees nearly gave out.
Michael caught my arm.
“What is it?”
I couldn’t speak.
The woman grabbed my other hand.
“Please don’t go in there.”
“That’s my daughter.”
“I know.”
“She’s alive.”
“Yes.”
Michael followed my gaze.
I felt his whole body go rigid.
“Oh, my God.”
He started toward the cafe.
