I was reaching for a bag of Honeycrisp apples when I noticed the gold chain. It was resting right there against her navy blue sweater. I didn’t mean to stare, but the sunlight coming through the front window of the Kroger caught the metal just right.

It had a tiny, jagged scratch on the back clasp that I had made myself with a pair of sewing scissors when I was sixteen. I knew that scratch. I knew it better than I knew my own reflection in the mirror these days.

Fifty-six years ago, I was just a girl waiting for the number 42 bus in the rain. I had that locket tucked inside my blouse. It was the only thing I had left of my mother after the pneumonia took her that spring. It had one picture inside. Just one. She was smiling, holding a tulip, her hair pulled back in that way she always did when she was working in the garden. I checked the transit office every Saturday for six months. They told me nothing ever turned up. I told myself it was gone. I told myself it was just a piece of metal and glass. But I was lying to myself every single day.

The woman at the apple display didn’t notice me at first. She was just checking the price tag on a bag of Gala apples. She looked like a regular person. She looked like somebody who goes to church on Sundays and worries about her grandchildren and forgets where she left her keys. I tried to walk away. I really did. I thought, it’s just a locket. They made thousands of them back then. It’s just a coincidence. It has to be.

But then she turned to reach for a different bag, and the chain swung.

The light hit that same scratch again. It wasn’t a coincidence. My heart started thumping so hard I thought the whole produce section must be able to hear it. I’ve lived a long time. I’ve seen a lot of things come and go. I’ve lost a house, a husband, and a career. I thought I knew what heartbreak felt like. But this felt different. It felt like time was folding up like a piece of paper.

I took a step closer. My legs felt heavy, like I was walking through deep water. “Excuse me,” I said. My voice sounded thin and brittle, like old parchment. She looked up. She had kind eyes, but they were guarded. Most people are guarded these days when a stranger walks up to them in a grocery store. “Yes?” she asked.

I pointed at the chain. I couldn’t help it. My hand was shaking so bad I had to tuck it under my arm. “That locket,” I whispered. “Could I please see it?”

She pulled back a little, clutching her sweater. “I’m sorry?”

“The locket,” I said again, my voice stronger this time. “I think it belonged to my mother.”