I fell asleep in the chair, burning with fever. I dreamed of a woman stroking my hair without hurting me. I dreamed of hot soup, clean blankets, and a door opening to let me in.
I woke when a truck screeched to a stop outside.
The post office door flew open. A thin woman rushed in, her coat buttoned wrong, her hair disheveled, her eyes red and wide with hope so desperate it hurt to look at. She stopped the moment she saw me.
I froze too.
There was something in her my body recognized before my mind could. The way she held her breath, as if she was afraid one wrong movement might scare me away. The way her hand trembled as she lifted it toward my face—not with violence, but with reverence.
“Lila…” she whispered.
Her voice broke.
A tall man came in behind her, broad-shouldered, his hair damp with melting snow. His eyes moved from my face to the flyer in the postmaster’s hand.
“Hannah,” he said hoarsely. “Look at her ear.”
The woman—Hannah—gently moved my tangled hair aside. She saw the mole. Then she looked at my left forearm and saw the birthmark.
And she let out a cry.
Not fear. Something older. Something deeper. The sound of a soul dragging itself out of the grave and breathing again.