“Yes. Do I know you?”
He appeared to be in his late twenties. He was holding an old photograph with both hands, as though he were afraid it might fall apart.
“I’m sorry to approach you like this,” he said. “But I’ve been trying to find you for months.”
My stomach tightened.
“Why?”
He turned the photograph toward me.
I stopped breathing.
It was the picture Thomas and I had taken during our final year of college. His arm was around my shoulders, and I was laughing at something outside the frame. The photograph I had kept in a drawer for decades. The photograph I had carried to the memorial every year.
“How did you get this?” I whispered.
The young man swallowed.
“My grandfather gave it to me.”
I stared at him.
“Your grandfather?”
He nodded. His eyes were already shining.
“His name is Thomas. Thomas Reed. He asked me to find you.”
