‘It’s Grace.

The agency confirmed she wants to speak with us.’

For a long time I could only hear rain tapping the workshop roof.

Grace had been four when we’d separated.

I remembered her yellow rain boots, how she called butterflies flying flowers, and the way she would fall asleep with one finger curled around Anna’s sleeve.

I had been afraid that after so many years those memories belonged to a person who no longer existed.

‘Are you there?’ Anna asked.