After the service, Celia approached me. She handed me a small, flat package. Inside was the original, original photograph—the one of Luna and her as children in front of the plaza fountain.
"She would have wanted you to have this," Celia said softly.
"Not a copy. The real one." It was the most precious thing I owned.
It was a gesture of immense trust, an acceptance into the story not as an investigator, but as a friend. I couldn't speak, I just nodded, holding the photo carefully, as if it were made of glass.