The older woman’s hand stopped in midair.

Her fingers trembled as she stared at the charm in the little girl’s palm, then at the child’s face.

The same eyes.

The same mouth.

The same softness around the cheeks.

“No…” she whispered, but the word broke apart before it fully left her lips.

The little girl swallowed hard and held the wilted flower closer to her chest. “My mom told me to find the lady with the blue dress and the broken heart.”

That was when the older woman broke.

A tear slipped down her cheek. Then another.

The flower seller looked away, ashamed for ever raising his voice. The nearby shoppers stayed frozen, sensing something too heavy to interrupt.

The woman knelt in front of the child, not caring that her elegant dress touched the wet ground.

“What is your mother’s name?” she asked.

The girl’s lips trembled. “Elena.”

The older woman shut her eyes like the name had cut straight through her.

Years ago, Elena had been her daughter.

Young, in love, pregnant, terrified.

And when scandal threatened the family name, the older woman had done the unforgivable—she had sent her away.

She had told herself it was temporary. That she would fix it later. That pride was not cruelty.

But Elena never came back.

The little girl’s voice shook. “She got sick.”

The older woman opened her eyes fast, already terrified of the answer.

“She died three days ago,” the girl whispered. “Before she died, she tied this charm to the flower and said… if you cried when you saw it, then you still loved us.”

The older woman covered her mouth and let out a broken sob.

Then the child slowly held out the wilted white flower.

“There’s one more thing,” she said.

Tucked deep beneath the ribbon was a folded note.

The older woman opened it with shaking hands.

Only one line was written inside:

“She’s your granddaughter. Don’t send her away too.”