A tiny yellow sun.
Crooked.
Hand-stitched.
Exactly where my mother had sewn it.
I crossed the terrace without realizing I had started moving.
“Excuse me.”
The woman turned.
“Where did you get that?”
She glanced down.
“This?”
“Yes.”
Her expression shifted.
“I’ve had it for years.”
“Where did you get it?”
My hands were already shaking.
Michael called my name behind me.
I barely heard him.
I pulled out my phone.
It took me several tries to find the photograph because my fingers wouldn’t cooperate.
Then I held it in front of her.
Nora.
Sixteen years old.
Standing on the beach in that exact turquoise cover-up.
The yellow sun clearly visible near the hem.
The woman stared at the picture.
Then at me.
Then past my shoulder.
Suddenly, she grabbed my wrist.
“Put that away.”
Her voice was low.
“She can’t know you’re here.”
The entire world seemed to shift beneath me.
“Who?”
The woman looked frightened.
Or maybe sad.
Then she whispered one word.
“Nora.”
I turned.
At first, I couldn’t find her.
There were too many people.
Then I looked through the café window.
