In the living room after dinner, the evening light was fading, casting long shadows across the carpet.

Emma had cleared the kitchen table and sat on the sofa with our old leather-bound photo albums spread open.

“Look at this one from my seventh birthday,” Emma said, pointing to a glossy print of her in a bright yellow sundress.

“You can see the garden shed and the old oak tree.”

I sat beside her and took the photograph, holding it close to the lamp to study the background.

In the frame, the old wooden swing hung from a thick branch of the oak tree, its thick hemp ropes worn gray by the weather.