In the early days, I had searched tirelessly for Vinca. Then, as the years passed, I waited for her to find me. But I never gave up, because I had an ace up my sleeve that only I knew about. Another memory. Not concrete evidence, perhaps, but a firm conviction. One that, in a court of law, can destroy a life or give it new impetus.

*  *  *

It had happened some years earlier. In 2010, between Christmas and New Year’s, New York was brought to a shuddering halt by a blizzard, one of the worst the city had ever seen. The airports were closed, all flights canceled, and for three days, Manhattan was buried under a mantle of snow and ice. On December 28, when the storm passed, the sun emerged and the whole city shimmered. At about midday, I left my apartment and strolled toward Washington Square. On the west side of the park, where the chess players gathered, I agreed to a game with Sergei, an elderly Russian who’d beaten me twice before, winning twenty bucks each time. I sat down at the stone table determined to take my revenge.

I remembered the moment perfectly. I was just about to take his bishop, and as I picked up my knight, I looked up and it was as though I had been stabbed through the heart.

There was Vinca, sitting on a bench not more than fifteen meters away.

She was reading a book, her legs crossed, holding a Starbucks cup. She looked radiant. More fulfilled, more gentle than she had ever been at school. She was wearing stonewashed jeans, a suede jacket, a thick scarf, and a woolen cap. Despite the cap, I could tell that her hair was shorter and no longer had red highlights. I rubbed my eyes. The book she was reading was one of mine. As I was about to call out, she looked up. For a second, our eyes met, and—

“Shit, man! You gonna play or what?” Sergei said.

I lost sight of Vinca as a gaggle of Chinese tourists traipsed into the park. I got to my feet and pushed my way through them, but when I reached the bench, she had disappeared.

*  *  *

How much should I trust that memory? It had been only a fleeting glimpse, I admit. Fearing that I might forget it, I had played it over and over in my mind to engrave it in my brain forever. Because I found the memory calming, I clung to it, knowing that it was fragile. All memories are reconstructions and contain some element of fiction, and this one seemed too good to be true.