« It’s me, » she said. Her voice shook. « Grace. »
I couldn’t breathe. I reached across the table and grabbed her hand, as if she might vanish again. She let me.
« Grace, » I said. It came out a whisper. « Oh, Grace. »
Then she said, « I’ve known where you lived for all these years. »
I let go of her hand. « What? »
« It’s me, »
« Years, » she said, and looked at the table. « I knew, and I didn’t come. There was a reason I couldn’t reach out. »
I felt the floor tilt. « What? »
She twisted her napkin.
Quiet, that was Grace, even now. Always the one who hoped the storm would pass if she stayed still.