“I brought this for you,” Evelyn said, holding it out with both hands.

“I thought you would want it for your new place.

It belongs with you, not in the attic.”

I looked at the silver frame, noting the dust in the corners and the small crack in the glass near the bottom edge.

It was the same photograph Arthur had mentioned at the coffee shop, a small piece of the past offered as a bridge over the gulf they had created.

“I don’t want it,” I said.