Amy took a deep breath, dabbing her eyes with the cuff of her borrowed shirt. “I was seven at the time. It was just before Christmas. We were on holiday, in a village near Mount Hood, and the day before we headed home Mom took me to a Christmas market. I remember it so clearly: the smell of apple and cinnamon, the snow falling, everyone singing carols. There were lots of stalls too, lots of people selling little trinkets, and just as we were about to leave Mom spotted this pendant—a mermaid sitting on a rock with her tail wrapped around a moonstone—a beautiful blue moonstone. I had this terrible fear of the water when I was young, so Mom bought the pendant and then sat me down and told me a story. She told me that this mermaid had also been afraid of the water, just like me, and that she’d never had the courage to dive into the ocean to find her way home. The mermaid had cried and cried, night after night, until one day she decided she wasn’t going to be afraid anymore, so she closed her eyes and made a wish, and the next morning, when she woke up, all her tears had dried up. But they weren’t gone—they had been collected to make her moonstone, which then became a reminder of how special and brave she was, and from that day on the mermaid was never scared of the water again. Mom then told me whoever wore the pendant would also have the mermaid’s powers . . . not to be afraid.” Amy sat up and tried to compose herself, even though her voice was still choked up with tears. “It might sound ridiculous, but to a seven-year-old girl, that story changed my life. It was magic.”

“And I bet you were never scared of the water again.”

“Nope, never.”

At that moment, it seemed Ryan’s eyes were glistening with tears too.

“She sounds like a wonderful person, Amy, and a wonderful mother.”

Amy collapsed back onto his chest.

“It hurts, Ryan. Whenever I think about her, it just hurts so much.”

“And it’s probably going to hurt for a while longer yet, but trust me, it will get better. Right now, everything is raw, but this pain you’re feeling will soften. I promise.”

“But what if it doesn’t?”

“It will.”

“I . . . I wish I could believe that. I want to, but—”

Ryan lifted her head and told her to wait right there.

“Where are you going?” she asked.

“Sit tight, I want to show you something.”

Ryan got up from the couch to retrieve two mysterious objects sitting on a far windowsill. When he returned, Amy could see they were two small rocks—one black, volcanic, covered in divots and holes and jagged edges, and the other gray and sleek and perfectly rounded, the kind you could skip across a lake.