It will sit in a shoebox on the top shelf of a closet.

It will sit in a cloud account with fourteen days left on it.

It will sit in a folder somebody thought they deleted.

And sometimes it sits under two inches of lace and a shade of foundation that doesn’t quite match, waiting for one person to be willing to reach out and move it — in front of everybody, knowing exactly how it will look if she is wrong.

Sophie came back down the path.

“We’re going Sunday too, right?”