The person whose name Eleanor had whispered during her final night in the hospital.

I wanted to believe I was mistaken.

I studied the angle of her face and the way she stood with one foot turned outward.

A stranger could have shared those features.

A stranger could have copied her mannerisms.

Then the collar of her sweater shifted and I saw the crescent-shaped birthmark near her collarbone.

I had spent an entire childhood telling her it looked like a tiny moon.

I pulled into a parking space down the road.