The whole store fell silent.

The saleswoman slowly let go of the little girl’s wrist, her face losing all color.

The owner stayed on her knees, staring at the bracelet with trembling lips.

Engraved inside was one name.

“Lena.”

The little girl looked down, scared.

“That was my mom’s name,” she whispered.

A tear slid down the owner’s face before she could stop it.

“That bracelet…” she said softly. “I bought it for my daughter on her eighth birthday.”

The girl’s breath caught.

The saleswoman looked from the bracelet to the owner, confused and ashamed.

The owner lifted her eyes to the child’s face and really looked at her—the shape of her eyes, the small curve of her mouth, the same frightened expression her daughter used to make when she was trying not to cry.

“Where is your mother now?” the owner asked, her voice shaking.

The little girl tightened her fingers.

“She died last winter.”

The words hit the room like a door slamming shut.

The owner covered her mouth and let out a broken breath.

The girl looked down at the white dress.

“She told me… if I was ever alone, I should find a store with pretty dresses,” she said. “She said maybe you would still love me.”

The owner began to cry openly.

The saleswoman stepped back in horror.

The little girl had not walked into the wrong store.

She had walked into her grandmother’s.