The flea market was crowded that morning: the kind of cool, bright day that made everything feel a little more alive.
I wasn’t there for anything in particular.
I just liked the noise… it drowned the silence I live in.
I was halfway through a lane of worn books and old CDs when I saw it. At first, I thought I was wrong. But there was no mistaking it: a gold bracelet with a thick band, and a single teardrop stone in the center.
It was pale blue like Nana’s eyes when she was little.
My hands started shaking.
I set it down, then snatched it back up like someone might take it.
The inscription was still there, scratched faint but clear into the back of the clasp:
I leaned over the table. “Where did you get this?
Who sold it to you?!”
The man behind the table looked up from his crossword puzzle.
“Young woman sold it to me this morning. She was tall, slim, and had a big ol’ mass of curly hair.”
“And?”
“But no more questions,” he continued.
“$200.
Take it or leave it.”
My mouth went dry.
I gripped the table edge. That description — that was her.
That was Nana.
I paid the $200 without blinking. I held the bracelet all the way home, gripping it like a lifeline.
For the first time in ten years, I was holding something she’d touched.
My husband, Felix, was in the kitchen when I walked in.
He stood at the counter with his back to me, pouring the last of the coffee into a chipped mug we’d had since the year Nana was born. He didn’t turn around.
“You were gone a while, Natalie.”
