The same initials Rebecca’s mother-in-law had kissed before fastening the necklace around their newborn daughter’s neck. “It will protect her,” she had whispered. “It’s been in the Anderson family for generations.”
Rebecca’s breath trembled. She wanted to deny what she was seeing. To call it coincidence. A replica. Anything but this.
But gold doesn’t forget.
And neither does a mother’s heart.
“What’s your name?” Rebecca asked softly.
“Grace,” the girl answered, wary but steady. “My name’s Grace.”
Michael stepped closer, every movement careful, as if one wrong breath would shatter something sacred.
“You said someone found you,” he pressed gently. “Who?”
Grace shrugged. “Miss Linda. She works at the shelter now. She said I was left outside St. Matthew’s Church wrapped in a blanket. Just me and this necklace.”
Rebecca covered her mouth to hold back a sob. Eight years. Eight endless years of believing their daughter, Abigail, had died in that hospital fire. Eight years of visiting a grave they never opened. Eight years of wondering if they had failed her.
Grace’s eyes darted between them. She sensed the intensity—too heavy, too bright.