Emma left work early.
She never left work early. In nine years, she had stayed late thousands of times, arrived early thousands more, but left early? Never. Not once. Her body didn't know what to do with the afternoon sun, the open streets, the sudden absence of fluorescent lighting.
She drove home in a daze.
The city was loud and bright and overwhelming. Emma kept her hands on the wheel and her eyes on the road. She didn't listen to music. She didn't call Olivia. She just drove.
When she got home, she sat on her couch.
The photograph was still on the coffee table. She had left it there this morning, unable to put it away. The little girl with the yellow ribbon smiled up at her.
You, Emma thought. Who were you?
She picked up the photograph. She stared at it until her eyes blurred.
