I raised my niece on my own — eight years later, she pointed at a woman in the next beach changing cubicle and whispered, “Aunty, look… she has my mark”

but those eyes were unmistakably hers. Same brown. Same restless sadness.

“Say my name again.”

“You were dead,” I whispered.

Joan pressed a hand over her mouth.

Behind me, Ruth called out, “Aunty Jess?”

Andy appeared with our beach bag on his shoulder and Ruth’s towel in hand. He looked at me, then at Joan, and his expression shifted completely.

“You were continue reading …