Artemia - Audrey - Camilla - Gilda - - Helga - Ni...

Artemia, who knew water before God. Audrey, who watched doors. Camilla, who broke bread for ghosts. Gilda, whose laugh was a weapon. Helga, who smuggled hope past borders.

Then .

And on the blank page, I wrote:

: a train ticket, Berlin to Prague, 1939. A single earring wrapped in tissue (a garnet, small, flawed). And a typed sentence: “Helga carried three languages and one secret. The secret was hope.”

The last page was blank. Except for a single word, pressed hard into the paper as if written on a moving train: Artemia - Audrey - Camilla - Gilda - Helga - Ni...

Maybe Ni was the one who wrote the final word. Maybe Ni was me, now.

So I took out my pen.

That night, in my hotel room, I opened it. was first. A photograph, sepia, edges scalloped. She stood on a dock, hair in a loose braid, holding a fish. Behind her: a lake, flat as linoleum. On the reverse, in pencil: “Artemia, 1943. She knew the water before she knew God.”