For days, I couldn’t stop thinking about her. Who was Anna? Was she still alive? I had to find out.
The next weekend, I went back to the flea market. The same vendor remembered me instantly. “Those shoes?” she said, frowning. “A man brought in a box of clothes. Said his neighbor — Anna — was moving and didn’t want them.”
After a week of digging through community boards, obituaries, and Facebook groups, I found her: Anna Collins, late thirties, living just a few miles away. The next Saturday, I drove to her address, my heart pounding the whole way.
The house looked forgotten — paint peeling, weeds curling through cracks, curtains drawn tight. When I knocked, a frail woman with hollow eyes opened the door.
“Anna?” I asked quietly.
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