She kisses my forehead. That’s not unpleasant either. The opposite. Familiar, without knowing why.

I stand up. Even though my head is spinning. Dad’s sister? My aunt? This is what I came here for. But if I don’t remember her? How do I know if . . .

“I know what you’re thinking, darling. I could be anybody. But don’t you see how similar we are.”

I nod. Doubtfully. I want it to be true. I want it so much my heart is pounding, but not to make me run, this time it wants to dance. Still, I know it’s dangerous to hope. Sometimes people say they’re your family and end up not being part of it at all—like your mom and dad become a Thomas and Anette.

“Let’s sit down on the bed again. I want you to look at something.”

We do so, sit down in the same places as before. And the woman reaches for the purse she brought with her and dropped in my pile of clothes.

“Here.”

A photograph. The colors faded. Paper rolling up at the edges, so I have to stretch it out with my index finger and thumb.

“Do you recognize them?”

A child, maybe two years old, is smiling at the camera from a stroller. Ice cream in one hand, in both hands, plus quite a bit on the cheeks and chin. A girl. Standing next to a woman, who is leaning forward, pressing her cheek against the baby’s head. They like each other. That much is clear.

“Yes. At least her.”

I point to the woman. A much younger version of my visitor. She nods.

“Yes. It’s me. And I’m sure you also recognize that little child.”

Yes.

I recognize the child.

Myself.

“What’s your name?”

I look at the woman who might be my aunt.

“Vesa.”

Like a whisper, it runs through me. A name that fills up every corner inside.

“Yes. Your name is Vesa.”

The photograph tries to roll up again, and I move my thumb and trade my middle finger for my index.

“Was it taken . . . here?”

“Just a few hundred meters from here. At the center of town. You’re two and a half. And I’m twenty-five.”

She roots around in her purse again. Lays a new photograph on top of the first. I don’t have to ask. It’s the same child, the same woman. And the other three are Eliot, Julia, and Dad.

“We’re at a restaurant. It still exists, over by the bridge that crosses the Drini. Your mother took it.”

I’m holding a piece of paper that means everything to me. Five people. Only two left. The two of us.

“But tonight, Zana, you can’t go to dinner.”