He simply turned around, unlocked a small velvet drawer beneath the register, and drew out a delicate filigree locket on a thin gold chain.
“I kept it in the back, ma’am,” he said, and slid it across the glass.
“Had a feeling you’d be back for it.”
I opened the little clasp with fingers that would not stay steady.
My grandmother looked out at me, black and white, her smile fierce and timeless, exactly as she had the day I sold her.
I fastened the chain around my neck and felt the small familiar weight settle against my collarbone, and it was as though a part of me that had been missing for four months walked quietly back into the room.
The last thing I had given up to survive his war was home, and it was the first thing I bought back.
The old man watched me fasten it, and there were tears standing in his own eyes, though he was too dignified to let them fall.
He told me, quietly, that he had had chances to sell it.
Someone had offered a fair price for it two months back, he said, a collector who knew filigree.