Her pulse quickened.
She could have answered.
She should have.
Instead, she looked toward Lucy's camera.
"My family moved away a long time ago."
Daniel waited.
Then nodded.
"That happens."
He returned to his work.
Nora felt a sharp sting of guilt.
She had not technically lied.
But she had deliberately avoided the question.
And the difference was beginning to matter.
Lucy showed another photograph.
"This one's my favorite."
It depicted sunlight falling through the broken roof of an old freight warehouse.
Nora studied it.
The composition was excellent.
"You have a good eye."
Lucy smiled.
"Thank you."
Nora glanced toward Daniel.
He was watching his daughter with quiet pride.
She felt something ache inside her.
For forty-six years, she had imagined what it might be like to see Daniel again.
She had never imagined meeting his daughter.
And now, unexpectedly, she found herself wanting to belong somewhere in their ordinary life.
Not as a billionaire.
Not as a guest of honor.
Just as Nora.
The woman who brought sandwiches.
The woman who listened to Lucy talk about photography.
The woman who sometimes stood beside Daniel while he worked and felt more at home than she had in any of the houses she owned.
That longing frightened her.
Because it was becoming harder to imagine leaving Bellweather again.
The old bridge called to Nora every evening.
For weeks, she avoided it.
She told herself it was enough to know Daniel was alive.
That he had a daughter.
That he had loved and lost a wife.
That she could visit him without disturbing his memories.
But at night, in the enormous white house, she opened the wooden jewelry box and looked at the brass ring.
Sometimes she held it between her fingers.
Sometimes she slipped it onto the thin silver chain she had purchased years earlier so she could keep it near her heart.
The ring no longer fit properly.
Age had changed her hands.
But the little crooked scratch remained.
She wondered whether Daniel remembered making it.
Whether he remembered their bench.
The sandwiches.
The afternoon he promised a real ring.
She wondered whether he had hated her.
Then she wondered whether he had stopped caring.
That possibility hurt most.
One Sunday afternoon in May, Nora finally went to the bridge.
She drove the borrowed motorcycle to a nearby turnout, removed her riding gear, and walked the remaining distance along the old path.
The woods were greener than she remembered.
The creek sounded smaller.
The bridge looked fragile.
A county notice warned visitors that parts of the structure were unsafe and access beyond the barrier was prohibited.
Nora stopped on the permitted path near the approach.
She did not cross the barrier.
Instead, she stood looking at the railing.
The bench had disappeared long ago.
Only a few rotten boards remained near the trees.
She remembered Daniel sitting beside her at nine.
Daniel at twelve, laughing when their homemade raft sank.
Daniel at fourteen, trying to hide his embarrassment as he gave her the ring.
Her knees felt weak.
She sat on a fallen log near the path.
Then began crying.
Not delicately.
Not the controlled tears she allowed herself at funerals or memorial services.
She cried for the girl who had been dragged from her hometown without warning.
For the boy who waited on a bridge.
For the lost letters.
The years.
The people they became.