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Marigold stood beside a man.

Older than I had ever seen him. Silver threaded through dark hair. Lines carved deep at the corners of his eyes. But there was no mistaking him. Not the set of his shoulders. Not the steadiness in his gaze. Not the quiet gravity that had always seemed too large for one person to carry alone.

August.

Standing close to her, not as a stranger, not as a passing acquaintance, but as someone who belonged there.

My fingers trembled so violently the photograph rattled between them.

“Oh,” Mum said softly, leaning closer. “That man right there, he adopted your grandmother.”

Adopted.

“Her parents died during the Unravelings,” she continued gently. “She was lucky she survived at all. There are stories she grew into a very powerful Weaver.”

Of course she did.

“She must have,” I whispered, though my voice sounded far away.

Mum smiled faintly. “When you were little, we wondered if you might have inherited a touch of her weave.” She squeezed my shoulder lightly. “But you're as normal as the rest of us.”

Normal.

If only she knew.

“What happened to him?” I asked, unable to look away from the photograph. “The man who adopted her.”

Mum thought for a moment. “Your gran said he died an old man. Peacefully, I think.” A small crease formed between her brows. “Strange, though. He never married.”

Of course he hadn't.

He had loved once. Completely. Irrevocably.

“Actually . . . ” She reached back into the chest, moving aside the photographs with gentle hands. “Your gran found something when she was young. Said it was the most romantic thing she'd ever read.”

She drew out an envelope, its edges softened by time, paper thin enough to hint at the letter inside.

“He wrote it to his one true love. A woman named Lily.” Mum smiled. “That's actually where we got your name. Your gran insisted.”

The room tilted.

She held the envelope out.

“Let me know if you find that necklace. I want to see it,” she said. “I've got to finish the dishes.”

I nodded and took the letter with hands that would not steady, afraid even my breath might damage it. The paper trembled in my grip, fragile, carrying the weight of a lifetime lived without me.

August's lifetime.

Carefully, reverently, I slid the letter free.

My fingers brushed the edge of the page.

His handwriting.

After all this time.

My vision swam as I unfolded it with the greatest care, heart hammering so violently I felt it in my ribs.