I walked closer. On the wall behind the photo were other things — my mom’s necklace, her old scarf, even one of her watercolor paintings.
I whispered, “These were in our house. How do you have them?”
Nora’s voice trembled. “You gave them to me… remember? You said you couldn’t bear to keep them.”
I shook my head. “No, I didn’t.”
She swallowed hard. “Maybe you don’t remember.”
The room went quiet except for the ticking clock. Then I noticed something else — a small wooden box on the table, carved with my mother’s initials. I reached out to open it, but Nora grabbed my hand.
“Please,” she said, “don’t.”
I looked at her, really looked at her — the same gentle eyes, but now filled with something like fear.
“Why not?” I whispered.
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