A millionaire bu/rie/d his wife. He was returning from the cemetery. By the gate sat an old woman. He gave her money. She took it, looked at him, and quietly asked, “And what will you say to your daughter?” He froze. He had no daughter…

Near the cemetery gate, beneath a rusted shelter, an old woman sat hunched in a dark coat. Gregory recognized the type. People who waited near funerals where grief loosened generosity. He reached into his pocket, pulled several large bills from his wallet, and placed them in her hand.

“Please remember Erin Miles in your prayers,” he said hoarsely.

The woman lifted her head. Her eyes were pale and strangely luminous. She took the money without counting it, then looked directly into his face.

“And what will you tell your daughter,” she asked quietly.

Gregory froze. His heart stumbled.

“What did you say,” he asked, convinced he misheard.

“Your daughter,” the woman repeated, her voice gentle yet certain. “What will you tell her now.”

“I do not have a daughter,” Gregory replied slowly. “I never had one.”

The woman shook her head with a knowing smile that carried no kindness and no cruelty.

“Soon it will be thirty years,” she murmured.

Walter opened the car door behind him. Rain poured harder. Gregory did not move.

“You are mistaken,” he said. “You must have confused me with someone else.”