She stared until the sun lifted a pale strip over the apartment building across the street. In the footage, the day had shifted into twilight. A child’s laughter threaded through the audio track now, the timbre impossibly familiar. Her grandmother, Etta, walked into frame—an impossible thing—and set a small tin camera on the mantel, exactly where Mara had remembered losing hers. Etta turned, as if sensing someone behind the lens, and for a heartbeat their eyes met. The camera caught a flicker of recognition on Etta’s face.