I said, “They find ways to stay close.” She didn’t look at me, but she didn’t leave either. We sat there in the damp air until the porch light flickered on, signaling my husband was looking for us.
A week later, she came into the kitchen while I was making tea. She didn’t say a word, but she reached into her pocket and pulled out a small, tarnished silver charm. It was half of a heart, the kind that snaps together with another piece to form a whole. She gave me her half of the necklace she’d shared with her mom—the only half she had left. The other half had been buried with Sarah two years ago.
I told her I would keep it safe, and for the first time, she let me give her a quick, awkward hug. Months passed, and things began to shift in our house. Maya started leaving her door open, and sometimes she’d even ask for my help with her history homework.
She began to smile more, and the “ghost” version of her started to fade away, replaced by a girl who liked loud indie music and burned toast.
We never talked about the necklace again, but I wore it on a hidden chain under my shirt every single day. It felt like a secret pact between us, a bridge built over a chasm.
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