Mrs. Rose was pulling blue tarps over crates of oranges. The stand was illuminated by a single, naked yellow bulb that swung gently in the wind.

"Nana," Hoyt called out. "Don't lock up yet."

The old woman turned. Her face was a map of wrinkles, lined with age and kindness. She wore a thick wool cardigan and a floral apron.

She smiled when she saw Hoyt. "You need apples, honey? Or did you just come to scold me for working late?"

Then, her gaze shifted. She saw the figure standing behind Hoyt.

Eva stepped into the light. She lowered her hood. Her wet hair framed her face-pale skin, wide dark eyes, a sharp jawline.

Nana's smile froze. Her hands went slack.

The basket of apples she was holding slipped from her fingers. It hit the ground with a dull thud. Red apples rolled across the wet pavement, scattering like spilled blood.

"Amirah?" Nana whispered.

The name hung in the damp air.

Eva's eyes filled with tears. She shook her head slowly. No. Not Amirah. Just the leftovers.

Nana took a step forward, her hands trembling violently. "You... you have her eyes. Her face."

Hoyt watched the scene unfold. He looked from Eva to Nana, piecing it together. The resemblance was uncanny. Eva wasn't just a random runaway. She was a ghost. Amirah was the daughter who had left twenty years ago and never came back.

Eva stepped over the scattered apples. She reached out a hand.

Nana was too shocked to move. She stared at Eva as if she were a hallucination that would vanish if she blinked.

The rain started to pick up again, tapping a rhythm on the tin roof of the stand.

Hoyt moved quietly. He crouched down and began picking up the apples, giving them space, but his ears were tuned to every sound, every breath.

Eva opened her mouth to speak. She wanted to say, It's me. I'm Eva. But the silence in her throat was a brick wall. Nothing came out but a ragged exhale.

She tapped her throat with two fingers.

Nana looked confused, tears pooling in her eyes. "Can't you speak, child?"

Eva shook her head sadly.

She reached into her damp jeans pocket. She pulled out the folded, crumpled piece of paper she had written on the bus, just in case.

Hoyt stood up, holding the basket of apples. He watched them, feeling like an intruder in a moment too private for strangers.

Eva's hand shook as she extended the paper. It was damp, the edges fraying, but the ink was still legible. As her grandmother reached for it, a wave of guilt washed over Eva. The words on the paper were a shield, a kinder, simpler version of a truth too sharp to speak. A truth about a mother who hadn't died in a clean, sudden accident, but who had faded away until there was nothing left. This note was her first lie to this kind old woman, and it tasted like ash in her mouth.

Nana took it. She fumbled in her apron pocket for her reading glasses and perched them on her nose. Her hands were shaking so hard the paper rattled.

Hoyt stood guard a few feet away, his back to them, facing the street. He was the perimeter.

Nana read the first line.

Mom is gone.

A gasp escaped Nana's lips. It wasn't a scream. It was a sound of pure, physical pain, like something inside her had just snapped.

She read on.

She died. I had nowhere to go. I'm sorry.

The paper slipped from Nana's fingers. It fluttered down and landed in a puddle. The blue ink began to bleed into the dirty water.

Nana's legs gave out.

Eva rushed forward. She caught her grandmother just before she hit the ground. They collapsed together onto the wet concrete.

"No," Nana wailed. "No, no, no."

It was a guttural sound, a keen of grief that tore through the night. Nana buried her face in Eva's shoulder, clutching her wet sweatshirt.

Eva held her grandmother. She wrapped her arms around the frail woman and held on tight. Tears streamed down Eva's face, silent and hot. For the first time in her life, she wasn't crying alone in a locked room. She was sharing the weight.

Hoyt turned around at the sound of the wail. He saw the two women huddled on the ground, surrounded by spilled apples and rain.

A sharp pain hit his chest. A memory of sand, blood, and a similar sound of grief flashed in his mind. He shoved it down.

He stepped forward, casting a shadow over them, blocking the wind.

A car drove by slowly, the driver craning his neck to gawk at the scene. Hoyt glared at the driver. His expression was murderous. The car sped up and vanished into the night.

"My baby," Nana sobbed. "My Amirah..."

Eva buried her face in Nana's neck, smelling lavender and old wool.

Hoyt realized they couldn't stay on the ground. The cold was seeping into them.

He crouched down beside them. His voice was surprisingly gentle, a stark contrast to his earlier roughness.

"Mrs. Rose," he said softly. "We need to get you inside."

Nana nodded weakly. She tried to stand, but she had no strength left.