My father texted me, ‘To us, you’re already dead,’ and I only replied,

someone afraid hope might be cruel.

When she saw me, she stopped.

I stood.

For a few seconds, we simply looked at each other. Same eyes. Same mouth. Same small mark near the temple.

Then she whispered, “Anna.”

I did not correct her.

She crossed the café and hugged me with the careful force of a woman holding both a stranger and a lost baby. I thought I would continue reading …