Chapter 1: The Star on Her Wrist
Friday nights at The Copper Lantern always moved like a river in flood, fast and loud and impossible to stop. The dining room smelled of garlic butter and fresh bread, and every table needed something at once. Hannah Brooks carried two plates on her left arm and a third in her right hand, weaving between chairs with the easy grace of someone who had done this a thousand times before.
"Table twelve needs bread," Molly Reyes called from behind the bar.
"On it," Hannah said, grinning as she slid past.
She had moved from Portland to Seattle two years ago, and this restaurant had become her second home. Nate, the line cook, always saved her a smile when she came to pick up an order.
Table nine was in the corner by the window. A woman sat there alone, elegant in a dark blue dress, her silver hair pulled back neatly. She looked calm and polished, like nothing in the world could rattle her.
"Here you are," Hannah said, setting the plate down with a smile. "Roasted chicken, extra lemon, just the way you asked. Can I get you anything else?"
The woman looked up, her eyes only polite. "Thank you, dear. It looks lovely."
Hannah reached for the water pitcher, and as she poured, her sleeve slid back, exposing her right wrist. A tiny star shaped birthmark sat just below her palm, pale and neat, like a small stamp pressed into her skin. She hardly ever thought about it.
The woman stared at it. The color drained from her face. Her hand shook, and her fork slipped from her fingers and clattered against the plate, then onto the floor.
"Oh," Hannah said quickly, bending down to pick it up. "Let me get you another fork. Are you all right?"
The woman did not answer. She was still staring at Hannah's wrist, her eyes wide with shock and grief.
"Your wrist," the woman whispered. "That mark. That star."
Hannah straightened up, holding the fallen fork in a napkin. "My birthmark? I have had it since I was born. It is just a little star."
"Since you were born," the woman repeated, as if the words were almost too much to say. "May I ask your name, dear?"
"Hannah," Hannah said. "Hannah Brooks. I am your server tonight."
"Hannah," the woman said softly, testing the name the way a person tests a word in a new language. "Hannah Brooks. And how old are you, if you do not mind my asking?"
"I am twenty five," Hannah said. "Is everything okay? Do you feel unwell?"
"No, no," the woman said, shaking her head. "I am fine. I am sorry to stare. You just reminded me of someone, someone I lost a very long time ago."
Something in the woman's voice made her pause. It was trembling, like a voice holding back tears.
"I really should not sit," Hannah said gently. "We are in the middle of the dinner rush."
"Thank you," the woman said. "You are very kind. My name is Victoria Ashford. I live in Seattle. I have lived here for many years."
"It is nice to meet you, Mrs. Ashford," Hannah said. "I hope you enjoy your dinner."
Victoria shook her head slowly. "Please, Hannah, I know this sounds strange. But that mark on your wrist, I have seen it before. I have seen it on a baby, a baby I held in my arms. I have thought about it every day for twenty five years."
Hannah felt a cold flutter in her stomach. She kept her smile in place because that was what waitresses did, but her voice went careful. "I think you may have me confused with someone else. I grew up in Portland. My parents still live there. It is just a birthmark. Lots of people have them."
"I know how it sounds," Victoria said. "I know I must sound like a foolish old woman. But please, when your shift is over, will you stay and talk to me? Just for a few minutes. I will wait. I am begging you, Hannah. Please stay."
Hannah looked at her again. Her hands were shaking, but her eyes were clear, and there was a deep, old pain in them.
"I get off at ten," Hannah said slowly. "I can give you five minutes after that. But I cannot promise more."
"Five minutes is enough," Victoria said, and her voice broke a little. "Thank you. Thank you, Hannah."
Hannah went back to work, but the rest of the shift felt strange. Every time she looked over, Victoria was still there, barely touching her food.
"What was that about?" Molly whispered. "That lady looks like she saw a ghost."
"She asked me to stay after my shift," Hannah said. "She seems harmless. Just sad."
At ten o clock, Hannah untied her apron, her hands a little unsteady. She told herself she was being silly.
Victoria was still at table nine, a cup of cold tea in front of her. When she saw Hannah, she stood up so quickly that her chair scraped against the floor.
"You stayed," Victoria said. "Thank you for staying."
"Five minutes," Hannah said, trying to keep her tone light. "What did you want to tell me?"
Victoria took a deep breath. Her fingers trembled as she reached into her purse and pulled out her phone. She held it with both hands, like it was something fragile and precious.
"Hannah," she said quietly, "twenty five years ago, I had a baby daughter. She was taken from me, and I never found her. I have searched for her ever since. And I need to show you something."
She turned the phone toward Hannah. On the screen was a photograph of a newborn baby, wrapped in a soft white blanket, sleeping with one tiny fist curled against her cheek. And on the baby's right wrist, small and pale and unmistakable, was a tiny star shaped birthmark, exactly like Hannah's own.
Chapter 2: The Woman with the Photograph
The last table left, and Hannah locked the front door of The Copper Lantern. Victoria Ashford waited in the corner booth, her coat folded beside her.
"You did not have to stay," Hannah said, untying her apron. "I can call you a cab."
"No, thank you," Victoria said softly. "I would rather stay, if you will let me."
Hannah slid into the booth across from her, tucking her right wrist under the table.