He stared at her. The ring he wore wasn’t something you could buy anywhere. It was a family heirloom. Only three had ever existed. One was on his hand. One had belonged to his younger brother, who had disappeared from his life years ago. The third had belonged to Hannah—the one she wore until the day he thought she died.
“Are you sure?” he asked, his voice lower now.
Lily nodded and described it perfectly: the blue stone, the silver setting, the geometric details. Then she hesitated, reached into her bag, and pulled out a folded photograph.
Ethan opened it.
The image was low quality, printed cheaply. But it didn’t matter. The woman in the photo looked thinner, more worn—but it was Hannah. Not someone similar. Not a possibility.
It was her.
He could barely breathe.
For a few seconds, everything around him disappeared. The music, the conversations, the movement of the restaurant—it all faded. He had seen the burned car. He had believed she was gone. But now the past had cracked open because a hungry child had recognized a ring.
He asked where she lived.
Lily told him: a poor area on the outskirts of the city, behind an old building, in a small room at the back.
That was enough.