That night, alone in the kitchen, I placed the pillow on the table.
The fabric was split open along one side. Old goose feathers were peeking out. It smelled of mothballs, lavender salve… and time.
I thought maybe it had just been a confused gesture of hers, a meaningless goodbye. I was about to just set it aside in a closet.
But as I reached my hand through the torn seam to smooth out the cotton, my fingers touched something buried deep inside the stuffing that didn’t feel like feathers.
It was hard. Small. And tightly wrapped.
PART 2
My heart started thumping against my ribs.
Slowly, carefully, I pulled my hand out from the torn seam of the pillow. Resting in my palm was a small, heavy velvet pouch tied shut with a piece of discolored twine.
I cut the string with a kitchen knife and tipped the pouch over the wooden table.
