Charlotte doesn't remember much about Grandma Gracie. Her memories of her exist only in fragments, broken pieces that she tries to put back together with gold like Japanese kintsugi: dark hair threaded with silver, the string of pearls around her neck, her sad smile, bright laughter in the kitchen, songs about the sea. Once, she sat between her legs as deft hands wound her hair into a copper-coloured braid.
She could never forget losing her, though. Just like that, she was gone. Charlotte thought she would drown from all her tears. No one believed her when she told them how much it hurt. Not really. Her mother had wiped her small, swollen face and bought her a new box of charcoals. A part of her, she thinks, will always carry that pain.
She sees something familiar in Max, the sorrow in his smile. Maybe he is the only one who could ever truly understand.
"You remind me of her, you know," Max tells her, the lines around his mouth a testament to all his mistakes. "Your grandmother."
Charlotte winces. She should be so lucky.