Chapter 2: The Photograph in the Wooden Box
I ripped off the rubber gloves.
One landed beside the sink. The other dropped into the basin with a wet slap.
Mae startled.
“Did I do something wrong?”” she asked.
“No.””
“Are you sure?””
“Yes.”” My voice cracked.
“Just stay there for a moment.””
I leaned closer, examining the mark again.
The scar curved gently beneath Mae's shoulder blade. Three freckles sat beneath it, forming a triangle so distinctive that I could have recognized it in a room full of strangers.
I remembered tracing those freckles as a child.
I remembered a woman laughing softly and telling me to stop tickling her.
I remembered warm hands smoothing my hair.
And I remembered waking up one morning to find those hands gone.
I squeezed my eyes shut.
No.
It couldn't be her.
The woman I remembered had smelled of lavender soap and fresh laundry. She had sung off-key while making pancakes on Saturday mornings. She had worn bright scarves and silver earrings that jingled whenever she turned her head.
She had promised she would always come back.
Mae looked nothing like that woman.
Her cheeks were hollow. Her hands were rough. Her hair was tangled, and her coat had been repaired with adhesive tape.
But the mark was unmistakable.
“Natalie?”” Mae whispered.
I opened my eyes.
“Can you turn toward me?””
She obeyed slowly.
I studied her face.
The dirt concealed much of her complexion, and exhaustion had drawn deep lines around her mouth. Still, there was something about the shape of her nose, the gentle curve of her upper lip, and the distance between her eyes that made my heart beat harder.
“Have we met before?”” I asked.
Mae frowned.
“I don't think so.””
“Think carefully.””
Her expression changed.
“I would remember someone like you.””
The answer struck harder than it should have.
Someone like me.
A woman with a mansion, a polished life, and a husband who apparently knew more than he was willing to explain.
I looked toward the bathroom doorway.
David was still there.
“Get out,” I told him.
He raised his eyebrows.
“Natalie—”
“Get out!””
Mae pressed herself against the side of the tub.
David studied my face for a long moment. Then he stepped backward into the foyer.
“I'll be right outside,” he said.
“Don't move.””
He didn't answer.
I turned back to Mae.
“I need to see your face.””
She nodded uncertainly.
I took a clean washcloth, dampened it, and began wiping the dirt from her cheeks. She sat still, though every few seconds her eyes darted toward the doorway as if she expected someone to change their mind and throw her out.
I cleaned her forehead, the corners of her eyes, and the skin around her mouth.
A thin line of grime disappeared from her jaw.
Then another.
Her face emerged gradually beneath the dirt.
I felt as though someone were pulling the floor out from beneath me, one inch at a time.
“What's your full name?”” I asked.
Mae hesitated.
“Mae.””
“Your last name?””
Her lips tightened.
“I don't know if I should tell you.””
“Why not?””
“Because names get people into trouble.””
I stared at her.
“Who told you that?””
She shook her head.
“I don't remember.””
A chill moved through me despite the bright sunlight pouring across the bathroom.
“You don't remember your last name?””
“Not anymore.””
“How long have you been living on the street?””
Mae looked down at her hands.
“Long enough.””
“That isn't an answer.””
“No,” she said quietly.
“It isn't.””
I wanted to demand more, but her voice had changed. It carried a weariness that made every question feel like another weight being placed on her shoulders.
Instead, I glanced toward the connected bedroom doorway.
My bedroom.
The old wooden keepsake box sat on the dresser beneath a framed photograph of David and me on our wedding day. I had kept the box there for years, although I rarely opened it.
Inside were things I could never throw away.
A silver hair clip.
A faded birthday card.
A tiny bracelet.
And the photograph.
I crossed the room barefoot, my pulse hammering in my ears.
Behind me, Mae called, “Where are you going?””
“I'll be right back.””
I reached the dresser and pulled open the top drawer.
My fingers fumbled against the folded scarves until they found the small wooden box.
Its corners were worn smooth from years of handling. A brass clasp held the lid shut.
I had received it from my grandmother after the disappearance.
She had placed it in my hands and told me that some memories were worth protecting, even when they hurt.
At the time, I hadn't understood what she meant.
Now I couldn't get the clasp open quickly enough.
It snapped free.
Inside, beneath a yellowed envelope, lay the photograph.
I lifted it carefully.
The edges had softened with age. A faint crease ran down the middle, but the image remained clear.
Eleven-year-old me stood beside a smiling woman in a pale blouse. My own hair was arranged in two neat braids, and I wore the yellow sundress my grandmother had bought me for my birthday.
The woman beside me had one arm around my shoulders.
Her smile was wide and unguarded.
Her dark hair fell in soft waves.
And just beneath the sleeve of her blouse, visible where the fabric had shifted, was a thin curved scar.
Three tiny freckles sat beneath it.
I gripped the photograph.
“Rebecca,” I whispered.
The name hadn't passed my lips in years.
Not since the adults in my life began exchanging glances whenever I asked where she had gone.
Not since my grandmother told me that sometimes people left without explaining why.
Not since I learned that asking questions could make a room go silent.
I hurried back to the bathroom.
Mae looked up when I entered.
“I'm sorry,” she said.
“I think I should go.””
“Please don't.””
She froze.
I knelt in front of her and held up the photograph.
“Look at this.””
Mae leaned forward.
Her eyes moved across the picture, studying the little girl first, then the woman beside her.
She stared at the woman's face for several seconds.
Then she looked at me.
“I don't understand.””
“Do you recognize her?””
Mae shook her head.
“I'm sorry.””
“Look again.””
“I am looking.””
“Her name was Rebecca.””
Mae's fingers curled around the towel in her lap.
“Rebecca,” she repeated softly.
I moved the photograph closer to her face.
“This was taken when I was eleven. This woman was part of my family.””
Mae studied the image again.
“I don't know her.””
My throat tightened.
“Her name was Rebecca.””
“You said that already.””
“Because I need you to remember.””
Mae flinched at the desperation in my voice.
I forced myself to breathe.
Then I held the photograph beside her cleaned face.
The resemblance was not exact. Twenty-three years had passed, and life had carved itself into every line of Mae's expression. Yet the shape of her eyes, the curve of her mouth, and the mark beneath her shoulder made the comparison impossible to ignore.
“Rebecca?”” I whispered.
Mae stared at the photograph.
Then at her reflection in the mirror.
Then back at me.
Her face remained blank.
“I’m sorry,” she said.
“I don’t remember that little girl.””
Tears burned behind my eyes.
“That little girl is me.””
For a moment, nobody moved.
Then Mae began to cry.
Not loudly. Not dramatically.
Just two silent tears slipping down her cheeks as she stared at a photograph of a life she couldn't recognize.
“I wish I could help you,” she whispered.
I couldn't answer.
Behind us, David lowered his eyes.
I saw the movement in the mirror.
He had been standing there long enough to hear every word.
Long enough to watch my world break apart.
I turned toward him, still holding the photograph.
“How do you know her?””
David's face tightened.
He looked at Mae.
Then at me.
“Natalie, I need you to listen carefully.””
My grip on the photograph tightened.
“Tell me how you know her.””
He opened his mouth.
Then closed it again.
And in that brief silence, I noticed something I had missed before.
David wasn't looking at Mae with the confusion of a man who had brought a stranger home.
He was looking at her as though he were afraid of what she might say.
“David,” I whispered, “what aren't you telling me?””
He took one step into the bathroom.
Then Mae reached into her old grocery bag and pulled out a small wooden object wrapped in a piece of faded cloth.
She held it against her chest.
“I don't know who that woman is,” she said, looking between us.
“But I have something I've carried for a very long time.””
David went completely still.
Mae slowly unwrapped the cloth.
Inside was a tiny silver hair clip.
I recognized it immediately.
It was the same one lying inside my keepsake box.
May you like
The same one I had believed was lost forever.
And when David saw it, the color drained from his face.
