“Mummy’s book—well . . . library book,” Rohini said. “I thought I’d returned them all, but I must have missed this one.” She held it up to him and he walked forward, not quite believing it. As though this dusty, icky, sticky book was some kind of mirage. When he’d seen the other relics of her life, he’d barely felt a thing. But here, seeing this book, the gray dust sticking to the plastic cover in splotches, it was like Naina was here in the room with them. Here, with his three girls, and one of Naina’s beloved books, for a moment, just a moment, he didn’t feel so alone.
