Plants.
A blue couch.
Photos pinned above a desk.
A pair of muddy hiking boots.
A ceramic bowl filled with keys and loose coins.
Someone had lived here.
Not survived here.
Lived.
I stepped toward the photographs.
Rebecca at a Christmas dinner with strangers.
Rebecca beside three women at a lake.
Rebecca wearing a volunteer badge at an animal rescue.
Rebecca standing behind a birthday cake with thirty candles.
My throat closed.
I had spent her thirtieth birthday sitting beside her grave with Mom.
Rebecca had spent it smiling beside people I had never met.
“You had birthday parties.”
She closed the door behind us.
“Natalie—”
“You had friends.”
“Yes.”
“You had Christmas.”
Her eyes filled again.
“Please.”
I turned.
“When did you remember your full name?”
Her face changed.
There it was.
The thing she had been delaying.
“How long?”
She looked down.
“Not all at once.”
“Rebecca.”
“Memories came back in stages.”
“When did you know you were Rebecca Hale?”
“About seven years ago.”
My heart slammed against my ribs.
Seven.
I almost didn’t understand the number.
“You’ve known your identity for seven years?”
“Parts of it.”
“Did you know Mom and Dad?”
“Yes.”
