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“Mum!” My voice broke on the word, too loud, too raw. “Mum!”
My voice carried through the house, sharp enough to cut through the clatter of dishes. The water turned off. Footsteps approached quickly.
She appeared in the doorway to the kitchen, drying her hands on a towel, concern already tightening her features.
“Lily? What is it? Are you alright?”
I was breathing too fast. My hands wouldn't stop shaking.
“Was there—“ My voice cracked. I swallowed hard and forced the words out. “Was there an hourglass necklace with Gran's things?”
She frowned slightly, thinking.
“An hourglass necklace . . . ” She tilted her head. “Hmm. Lily, I don't recall if there was.”
The fragile hope inside my chest lurched, threatening to collapse.
“But,” she added, brightening a little, “all the rest of your great-great-grandmother's things are in the top of the closet in my room. We can go look.”
I froze.
Great-great-grandmother.
The words didn't make sense at first. They hung in the air, disconnected from meaning, until suddenly they snapped into place with devastating clarity.
“These were my great-great-grandmother's?” I asked, the question coming out thinner than I intended.
“Of course.” She gave me a puzzled smile, as if this were obvious. “I used to tell you that when you were little. They were her favorite stories. Apparently, someone very important bought them for her when she was young, and she treated them like fine diamonds.” Her gaze softened with fond amusement. “That's why they're still in such remarkable condition.”
Someone important.
My throat tightened painfully.
I opened the book in my hands, fingers clumsy, heart pounding hard enough it might bruise my ribs. The pages rustled as I flipped to the front where Marigold had written her name.
I turned the book and held it out to her, my hand trembling so badly the cover quivered.
“Her name was Marigold?”
Mum leaned closer, squinting slightly at the faded ink.
“Yes,” she said after a moment, nodding. “Marigold. Your great-great-grandmother. Why?”
Why.
Because I had held her hand while she cried in the cold. Because I had promised nothing would happen to me. Because I had given her these exact books on her eleventh birthday.
My knees threatened to give, the hallway tilting subtly around me.
Marigold.
Not a story. Not a coincidence. Not a fragment of the past.
Family.
The realization landed with breathtaking force, a thread pulling tight across centuries. It finally made sense why she reminded me so much of my sister. The blonde curls. The eyes.
She hadn't just survived.
