The top sheet of paper was the rental agreement for the shop, and Miki heard herself sigh—at least that much had been legal. The next document was more interesting: a photocopy of an agreement for a monthly transfer of two thousand dollars into an account under Kurt’s name. It was signed in a scrawl Miki couldn’t read. Something opened inside her, a vault of hope. This was a relief: the extra money hadn’t all come from Kurt’s drugs.

Scanning through the agreement, she saw her name embedded in the typing. These payments are for the care of Mikaela Gretel Muller, payable monthly until she attains twenty-one years of age unless she elects to establish contact earlier.

Establish contact? Miki’s heart tumbled. Who could be paying her?

Her hands shook as she shifted the document aside. Beneath it: her birth certificate. Register of Births. Her surname: Muller. Given names: Mikaela Gretel. And below that, the names of her parents: Klaus and Heather Muller.

Miki slid the birth certificate aside and found an envelope beneath it with her name written on the front. She turned the envelope over and found that it had been opened and resealed—Kurt must have read it. She drew the letter out, unfolded it and read the first words: Dear Mikaela, I am your grandmother, though you may not know of me.

It was handwritten, dated a month after the fire in which Miki’s parents had died.

Tears welled, and she couldn’t go on. She was trembling, as if a great wind was blowing over her like it did up in the forest.

Taking a moment to compose herself, she set the letter down and rested her hands on the folder. There was a bulge in the back pocket. Something more? She slipped her hand in and tugged out a bundle of cards tied with blue ribbon, just like the ribbons Mother had used in Miki’s hair when she was small.

The cards spilled onto the table when she untied the bow. They were birthday cards with glittery numbers on the front. Miki flicked through them. One for every year of her life up to sixteen. She opened one and recognised the same scrawl as the handwritten letter: To dear Mikaela on your 6th birthday. With love and best wishes from your Grandma.

Closing her eyes, Miki tuned in to the sounds all around her, the hush and quiet, movements outside the house: a car going by in the street; wind buffeting at the windows; the thump of Geraldine hacking at something in the garden with a hoe; the sound of children’s voices next door, arguing and then unexpectedly breaking into laughter.

That was life, wasn’t it? Tears and then laughter. Knocks and recovery. Injury and healing. Loneliness and then friends.