Odette eventually sold the watch. She used part of the money to buy Margot school supplies and the rest toward a winter coat. A few days later, a card arrived at our house. Odette wrote that she had raised her daughter to sing, and Wren had helped make sure the world could hear her. She said she had no words beyond that. I read the card several times before putting it in the drawer where I kept the things I could not bear to throw away. I was still sad that the watch was gone. I had imagined keeping it for the rest of my life, perhaps passing it down when Wren was older. But I understood that its value had never been limited to what someone might pay for it. My daughter had seen a girl who needed help and found a way to give her a chance, even though doing so meant surrendering something precious.

Wren and Margot never became inseparable friends. They were kind to each other in the quiet, careful way of people who share something meaningful without needing to share everything. Wren rarely spoke about that year, and I did not press her. Sometimes, though, I watched her at her sewing machine in the evenings, working on something she kept hidden until it was finished. I would see her bent over the fabric, guiding each stitch with patience, and think about the girl who had stayed awake past midnight with a needle, a piece of cloth, and her dead father’s cardigan. She had heard a voice she believed deserved to be heard and decided she could help clear the way. Her father would have loved her for that. In truth, he already had. Wren had learned from him that love was not only something you felt or remembered. Sometimes, love meant giving another person the chance to stand in the light, even when the cost was something you would miss forever.