The warmth of the shop smelled of old coffee grounds, steamed milk, and damp umbrellas.

Only two other customers were in the place, sitting near the front counter, talking in low voices.

I scanned the room.

The back corner was shrouded in shadow, lit only by a small brass lamp on a wooden table.

Sophia was sitting there.

She was wearing a thick beige woolen coat, the collar turned up.

Her blonde hair was damp, sticking to her cheeks in thin strands.

On the table in front of her sat a large leather handbag, zipped shut.

She looked up as I approached.

Her eyes were wide, shadowed with dark circles, and she looked much younger than she did in the photographs I had found.

She looked small.

“Emily,” she whispered.

I did not answer immediately.

I pulled out the wooden chair opposite her and sat down.

The chair scraped loudly against the hardwood floor.

Sophia flinched at the sound.

“Thank you for coming,” she said, her voice trembling.

“I didn’t come to comfort you, Sophia,” I said, keeping my voice flat and quiet.