Then I began cleaning her shoulder. The dirt slowly disappeared. And underneath it was a small crescent-shaped birthmark.
I stopped breathing. Twenty years earlier, my mother had disappeared after leaving work one rainy evening.
The police eventually assumed she had died. I never accepted it. For two decades, I had carried one thing that belonged to her.
A silver locket containing an old photograph. In that photograph, the same crescent-shaped mark was visible on her shoulder.
I dropped the sponge. Then I ran into my bedroom. Rose called after me, confused.
I opened the hidden compartment in my jewelry cabinet and pulled out the locket.
When I returned, my hands were shaking. I held the photograph beside her shoulder.
The mark matched. Rose stared at the picture. Then her entire expression changed.
She whispered one word. A name she supposedly had not remembered in twenty years.
“Elena?” My knees nearly gave way. But before I could understand how the homeless stranger in my bathtub knew my name, Adrian appeared in the doorway holding an old police file.
And from the look on his face, I realized something even more shocking.
My husband had not brought Rose home by accident. (I know you’re all very curious about the next part, so if you want to read more, please leave a “YES” comment below!)
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