Part 8: The Copy

Several months later, the photograph arrived in a flat envelope. Daniel had included a note saying he had kept the original and made two copies: one for me and one for his repair shop. He asked whether I remembered the title of the book our mother was reading.

I did not. I asked my aunt, who remembered the cover but not the title. Jo suggested checking the bindery's old inventory, where my mother had once listed books she wanted repaired. We found a possible match, but the photograph did not show enough of the cover to be certain.

Daniel said he liked the uncertainty. “We can call it the dog book until we know.”

The exhibition continued at the library for another month. The retired ferry worker recorded his memory for the archive, and Jo added a note explaining which details came from his account. The staff kept the original documents under appropriate conditions and displayed copies where visitors could examine them closely.

My work at the bindery increased gradually according to the plan I discussed with the rehabilitation team. Some days I could review several labels. Other days I needed to stop after one. Jo and the other conservators continued to make decisions without waiting for me to approve every detail.

At a follow-up visit, the care team answered my questions and adjusted the plan where appropriate. I told them that I still did not remember opening the folder before the accident. They did not promise a date when the memory would return. They helped me work with the information and abilities I had.

Daniel visited the bindery on a quiet afternoon. He brought a lamp from the repair shop because Jo had asked him to check its switch. He repaired it at the workbench and gave her an estimate before replacing the part.

Afterward we had tea. I asked whether he wanted to read me more of our mother's letter. He said there was a passage about the kitchen table: she hoped we would keep a place where people could bring a problem without being laughed at for not knowing the answer.

“That sounds like her,” I said.

“She also said I should return borrowed tools.”

“That sounds even more like her.”

We laughed. He kept the letter in his pocket. I did not ask for a copy. It had been written to him, and sharing a sentence was a choice he could make each time.

Mira arrived with a small frame for the photograph. She had measured the space on my shelf and included a stand so I would not need to hang it immediately. I placed the picture beside the corrected exhibition label and the invitation I had never mailed.

That evening I called Daniel to thank him. He asked whether I wanted to meet our aunt for lunch the following week. I checked my calendar and said yes, with enough time afterward to rest. He repeated the time and location, then asked whether I wanted him to arrange transport. I said Mira had offered to drive.

“All right,” he said. “I'll see you there.”

After the call, I looked at the photograph. I could not remember every moment before the accident, and I could not recover the years we had spent apart simply by finding a letter. I had a brother who had called back, colleagues who shared the work, and a plan that could change as I did.

The rain began again against the window. This time I knew where I was, and I knew I did not have to answer every question before the evening ended.