Fairholme’s hands shook as Aracely lifted her half toward him and let him hold it.

Faded by thirty years but still legible, engraved into the silver, were three words and two letters.

S.F. — My light always returns.

Fairholme closed his eyes.

And then the most powerful man in the room lowered himself to his knees in front of the woman in the cheap blue dress.

“Seraphina,” he choked out.