I saw it.
The bracelet.
I recognized it instantly.
Back at the orphanage, just before we were separated, I had braided that bracelet myself—from strands of yarn I had taken from a craft workshop.
The same colors.
The same uneven knot.
My hands went cold.
Before I could talk myself out of it, I walked over to her and spoke softly.
“Sweetheart, that’s a beautiful bracelet. Did you make it yourself?”
She smiled brightly.
“No,” she said. “My mom gave it to me. It used to be hers, and then she gave it to me. She said it’s very special—and that I should never lose it.”
My voice trembled.
“Is your mom here with you?”
She nodded and pointed just down the aisle.
“Yes… she’s right there.”
My heart started pounding so hard it felt like it might break through my chest.
I turned slowly.
And as the little girl’s mother began walking toward us…
Everything in me went still.
She was about my age.
Dark hair pulled back loosely.
Tired eyes—but kind.
Familiar.
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