At first, I thought I was wrong. But there was no mistaking it: a gold bracelet with a thick band, and a single teardrop stone in the center. It was pale blue like Nana’s eyes when she was little.
I thought I was wrong.
My hands started shaking. I set it down, then snatched it back up like someone might take it.
The inscription was still there, scratched faint but clear into the back of the clasp:
“For Nana, from Mom and Dad.”
I leaned over the table. “Where did you get this? Who sold it to you?!”
The man behind the table looked up from his crossword puzzle. “Young woman sold it to me this morning. She was tall, slim, and had a big ol’ mass of curly hair.”
“Where did you get this?”
“And?”
“But no more questions,” he continued. “$200. Take it or leave it.”
My mouth went dry. I gripped the table edge.
That description — that was her. That was Nana.
I paid the $200 without blinking. I held the bracelet all the way home, gripping it like a lifeline. For the first time in ten years, I was holding something she’d touched.
I paid the $200 without blinking.
***
My husband, Felix, was in the kitchen when I walked in. He stood at the counter with his back to me, pouring the last of the coffee into a chipped mug we’d had since the year Nana was born.
He didn’t turn around. “You were gone a while, Natalie.”
I didn’t answer right away. I walked over, bracelet clutched tight in my hand, my heart thudding with something between hope and fear.
“Felix,” I said quietly, holding it out. “Look at this.”
