The crinkled edges of the photograph, almost crumbled in her shaky hand, it was housed amongst others faded, in a pale blue wooden box, with a rusted silver latch.
Her right index finger traced endlessly around the face that smiled back at her. As the sun stretched its way through the transparent curtain she looked to see her laughing on the lawn.
Opening the jewellery box, she picked up the hair clip, now lost of sparkly beads that once shone inside her hair. In the back of the open wardrobe, a scarf fallen, forgotten, touched by her skin, she stroked its softness before holding it to her face breathing in the scent of her.
Apart from the photographs and a few of her possessions, she was a sillohuetted face, but this face belonged to her mother and this is all what remained.