At seven twenty, Elena walked down the three flights of stairs in her old apartment building, a cup of coffee to go in one hand and her bag in the other. She closed the front door behind her and took a deep breath of the cool morning air. The street was already beginning to come alive. Cars flowed past in a steady stream of noise, the first buses dropped passengers off at their stops, and the café patios welcomed their regulars. A woman walked her dog on the opposite sidewalk, and two teenagers ran so they wouldn’t miss their bus. The world had this strange way of carrying on, even after you’d had a terrible night.
Elena glanced at her watch. Seven twenty-one. She had fifteen minutes to get to work. She picked up her pace.
Her workplace was about twenty minutes from home: a small shop on a busy shopping street that specialized in old books, secondhand items, and a few antiques whose origins and value she generally knew nothing about. She had been working there for almost eight months. It wasn’t the job she’d dreamed of. To be honest, she’d never really known what she’d dreamed of. After her mother disappeared, her childhood had been marked by changing foster families, moving from place to place, and the constant feeling that she never belonged anywhere. She’d learned early on not to get too attached. When she left the foster home where she’d grown up, all she’d wanted was an apartment, a job, and a normal life. She’d managed it—or at least, she thought she had.
When she arrived in front of the shop, the clock above the door read seven thirty-five. She was late—only five minutes, but enough to know what was waiting for her. She pushed open the door. A small bell chimed above her head.
“You’re late.”
Elena looked up. Camille stood behind the counter, arms crossed. Twenty-six, with blond hair tied in a ponytail and an impressive ability to notice the slightest anomaly in other people’s lives. Elena set down her bag.
“Good morning to you, too.”
“Good morning. You’re late.”
“I know.”
“Five minutes.”
“I can count.”
Camille stared at her for a few seconds before smiling.
“Rough night?”
Elena walked around the counter.
“How do you know?”
“You have the eyes of someone who slept for two hours.”
“I slept.”
“That’s something.”
Elena grabbed her apron and tied it around her waist. Camille was still watching her.
“The same dream again?”
Elena froze.
“Maybe.”
“So, yes.”
“It’s nothing.”
“Elena.”
“It’s just a nightmare.”
Camille sighed. She’d known the story for a long time. Not the whole story, obviously. Elena almost never talked about her mother, but eventually she’d told Camille that she’d been having the same dream since childhood. At first, Camille had joked about it. Then she’d realized Elena wasn’t joking when she said the dream had been coming back for sixteen years.
“You should talk to someone,” she said.
“A psychologist?”
“Why not?”
“To tell them I’ve been dreaming about a forest since I was six?”
“Yes.”
“They’ll tell me I have childhood trauma.”
Camille shrugged.
“And maybe they’ll be right.”
Elena didn’t answer. She picked up a few books lying on a table and began putting them away. Camille watched her for another moment before changing the subject.
“Oh, by the way, you got a call last night.”
“From who?”
“I don’t know. They didn’t leave a message.”
Elena looked up.
“On the shop phone?”
“Yes.”
“Did they call back?”
“No.”
Elena nodded. She didn’t think about it again; customers were starting to come in. The morning passed quickly. They came and went without lingering for long. A student looked for an old dictionary, an elderly woman bought two mystery novels, and a man in a suit spent nearly an hour examining a collection of books he ultimately didn’t buy. The ordinary rhythm of the place finally had the desired effect. Elena forgot her nightmare. She even forgot about the call from the night before—until eleven thirty-seven.
The doorbell chimed, and Elena looked up. An old woman had just walked in. She had to be over seventy. She wore a long gray coat despite the mild temperature and held a black cane in one hand. She didn’t look at the books or the objects. She looked straight at Elena, and her expression changed, almost imperceptibly. Her eyes widened slightly, her lips parted, and then she whispered:
“This is impossible.”
Elena frowned.
“Ma’am?”
The old woman took a few steps toward her. Elena noticed that she was trembling.
“You look so much like her.”
Elena felt her stomach tighten.
“Like who?”
The old woman didn’t answer. She continued staring at her. Her gaze dropped to the pendant Elena wore around her neck, and this time, fear clearly appeared on her face. She took a step back.
“Where did you get that?”
Elena instinctively placed a hand over the pendant.
“It’s mine.”
“No.”
The answer was so curt that Elena was taken aback.
“Excuse me?”
The old woman shook her head.
“It shouldn’t still be here.”
“You know this pendant?”
The woman looked around, as if she’d suddenly become afraid that someone was watching them.
“You have to leave.”
Elena remained silent.
“Leave for where?”
The old woman stepped closer. Her voice dropped to nearly a whisper.
“Far away from here.”
“Why?”
The old woman fixed her eyes on Elena’s. Then she whispered:
“Because they’ll eventually find you.”
A shiver ran down Elena’s spine.
“Who?”
But the old woman had already turned on her heel. She hurried out of the shop. The bell chimed one last time. Elena stood motionless behind the counter. Camille appeared beside her.
“That was weird.”
Elena didn’t answer. She was staring at the door. The old woman had vanished into the crowd. Then she slowly lowered her eyes to her pendant. For the first time since she’d started wearing it, she wondered whether her mother had really left her nothing more than a simple keepsake.