The Forest That Remembered Names

Chapter 1: Footprints

The first time I saw the photograph, I thought the old woman in it was looking past the camera.

Not at it.

Past it.

The picture was small and faded, kept inside a cracked wooden box that smelled of dust, dried flowers, and old paper. My grandmother had carried that box with her for almost eighty years. She kept it under her bed, wrapped in a piece of cloth, and she never allowed anyone to throw it away.

When I was young, I always assumed it contained jewelry or money.

I was wrong.

Inside were only three things.

A black-and-white photograph of a group of Romani people standing beside a wagon.

A small piece of blue fabric.

And a wooden button that had lost most of its color.