— Ana…
His name err so.s. slowly that the women almost didn’t hear him.
The oldest one came down his handkerchief.
- Father?
Gregory did not answer.
He was looking at the woman in the coffin.
He was maybe 35 years old.
His brown hair was carefully arranged around his face, and his hands were joined on his chest.
But she wasn’t making him stunt.
It’s the locket at her neck.
A small silver oval, scratched to one side.
Gregory reached out his hand, then stopped before touching him.
Where does this medallion come from?
The two women were watching.
The youngest answered:
He always had it.
-
Who are you?
-
Maria. Her aunt.
And to her?
- My mother. – Ana’s Grandmother.
Gregory became even more pale.
What was her mother called?
Maria is hesitant.
- Elena. Elena Stănescu.
The parent leaning on the edge of a chair.
Now he knew.
It wasn’t a resemblance.
