Then, one Saturday morning, something happened that changed everything.
I was walking through a flea market downtown.
I wasn’t looking for anything in particular.
I had gone there because I needed to get out of the house.
I wandered between tables filled with old books, dishes, lamps, jewelry, photographs, and forgotten objects from other people’s lives.
Then I saw them.
Two tiny silver stars.
Sitting inside a shallow wooden jewelry tray.
My entire body froze.
I couldn’t breathe.
I stepped closer.
No.
It couldn’t be.
I picked them up.
My hands started shaking.
There was a tiny scratch along the edge of the left earring.
I remembered that scratch.
Hannah had made it when she dropped one of them against the piano bench.
The blue stones weren’t perfectly matched.
One was slightly darker than the other.
And the back of one earring had a tiny mark from the jeweler.
I knew them.
I knew every imperfection.
They were Hannah’s.
My daughter’s earrings.
The earrings she’d promised never to take off.
“Where did you get these?”
The woman behind the table looked at me.
“Those?”
“Yes.”
She shrugged.
“Estate sale.”
“Whose?”
“I don’t know.”
“Please.”
My voice cracked.
“Where did they come from?”
The woman looked uncomfortable.
“A company bought several boxes from an estate. We were told to sell whatever was inside.”
I stared at the earrings.
“Do you know the name of the person?”
“No.”
“Was it local?”
She shook her head.
