Rosa stared at the man’s outstretched hand. Her lips parted. “Who are you?” she whispered. He reached into his jacket and drew out a small, creased card, soft with age. “My name is Walter Briggs,” he said. “I served with your father. He asked me to write this on the back of his picture, and I have carried it for twenty-six years.”

He turned the card toward her. Rosa read it, and her hand flew to her mouth. Her mother stood up from the family table with a gasp. The room was so silent that I could hear the ice melt in the water glasses. Rosa looked at the stranger, and then at the photograph on the chair. Her shoulders began to shake, and she nodded.