I glanced down at the train ticket in his hand. It was the same one from three years ago. The paper had turned yellow, and the corners were frayed, but he had kept it sealed safely in plastic.
I took it from him and wrote my name firmly across the back: Nora Sullivan.
On the day Yosef and I got married, snow fell over Cloud City all night. There was no five-star hotel or convoy of luxury cars. We had a yard full of tables and chairs, several crates of beer, and neighbors hollering their blessings at the top of their lungs.
Yosef slid an old silver ring onto my finger. It was the only thing I had taken when I left the Sullivan family, a ring my grandmother had given my mother, and my mother had passed down to me.
Everything else had been moved into Victoria's room.
But standing there,
