At first, I thought it looked familiar. The lace sleeves, the scalloped neckline, the faint champagne tint of the silk. Then my breath caught in my throat.

I knew that dress.

My mother’s wedding dress.

The one she was supposed to wear the day she disappeared.

My hands began to tremble as I reached out and touched it. I remembered the way she’d twirled in front of the mirror weeks before the wedding, laughing, asking if it made her look too young. I remembered the delicate beading on the bodice — the same pattern now beneath my fingertips.