Losing my mom shattered me. She wasn’t just my parent—she was my only person. It had always been just the two of us against the world. After she passed, I knew I had to clear out her house if I ever wanted to move forward. Every item I touched held a memory, and each memory was a weight I had to bear alone. But one object stood out among the rest: a stunning emerald pendant buried at the bottom of a velvet-lined box.
She never wore it—not once that I could remember. Which was odd, considering its beauty. The stone was deep green, framed in intricate gold detailing. It didn’t match the rest of her modest jewelry. I figured it must not have meant much to her, and since I needed to part with things to let go, I decided to sell it.
That decision led me to the flea market, a place filled with all the strange energy of discarded treasures. The sun was high, the air thick with the scent of fried food and aged books, and my mother’s belongings were spread across a folding table. The pendant lay in a small glass case beside a few other trinkets.
And then, everything changed.
A man stopped in his tracks, his eyes locked onto the pendant. He was in his late fifties, maybe early sixties, with sharp but kind features and graying hair. His reaction was instant—like he’d seen a ghost. His hands trembled as he reached toward the glass, but he didn’t touch it.