Beside her stood Elena.
The resemblance between the two women was unmistakable now that Mother Caridad knew to look for it. They shared the same dark eyes, the same narrow chin, and the same expression people wore when they were smiling for someone they trusted but still carried private worries.
On the back of the photograph, Esperanza’s handwriting seemed to belong to a stranger.
I have chosen this. Please help me remember.
Below it, written by someone else:
Ana remembered everything once before.
Esperanza touched the edge of the photograph but did not pick it up.
“Once before,” she repeated.
Mother Caridad watched her carefully.
“Does anything return when you look at it?”
Esperanza shook her head.
“Only feelings.”
“What kind?”
She searched the photograph again.
“Relief,” she said after a moment. “And sadness. As though I had reached the end of a long conversation and still knew another one was waiting.”
