Page 154 of The Threads Between

I was a part of her.

“Come on,” my mum said. “Let's see about that necklace.”

I dragged a chair into my parents' closet and climbed carefully, pulse hammering so loudly it filled my ears. The air smelled of cedar and lavender, the scent of things meant to endure.

“There,” Mum said behind me. “Top shelf.”

A wooden chest sat pushed against the back wall, dark and polished, brass corners dulled with age. Not large, but solid. A place where important things go.

I lifted it down with both hands. It was heavier than it looked.

Hope surged so fast it hurt.

Please. Please let it be here.

We carried it to the bed. My fingers hovered over the latch, suddenly clumsy, suddenly terrified. Then I opened it.

The lid creaked.

Inside lay layers of yellowed tissue, folded with meticulous care. My hands shook as I peeled them back one by one, breath catching with every layer.

No necklace.

The hope collapsed so quickly it left me dizzy.

But beneath the paper lay photographs.

Dozens of them.

I picked one up.

Marigold stood in a garden, perhaps fourteen, hair longer but still untamable, chin lifted in stubborn defiance at whoever held the camera. Sunlight caught her cheek, turning her into something fierce and alive and achingly familiar.

Another, older. Early twenties. Laughing, joy unguarded, the kind that only comes from surviving long enough to believe you might keep surviving.

Years. She had been given years.

My vision blurred.

I turned another photograph over and stopped breathing.

Three figures stood shoulder to shoulder.

Marigold in the center, composed now, strength etched into every line of her posture. On one side stood Garrick, unmistakable even in stillness, broad-shouldered, his expression caught halfway between a smirk and something gentler. On the other stood Mira, elegant and formidable, her hand resting lightly on Marigold's arm as if anchoring her there.

You made it.

All of you.

Another photograph slipped free.

Adeline. Standing beside Marigold on what looked like the steps of a grand building, both of them dressed formally, expressions calm and purposeful, the faces of women who shaped the world instead of hiding from it.

Tears spilled down my cheeks before I noticed they had started.

“You lived,” I whispered.

My hand shook as I reached for the last photograph at the bottom of the stack, and the world narrowed to a single point.