Adrian Cole had learned not to enter the nursery too quickly.
If his twins saw him, everything changed.
Sofia immediately wanted to be picked up.
Leo stopped whatever he was doing and followed his father from room to room.
And if either child was already upset, Adrian’s presence usually made the crying louder rather than quieter.
So that afternoon, he remained quietly in the doorway.
Neither child had noticed him.
Across the bright nursery, their new nanny, Elena, was kneeling on the white rug between them.
Sofia was crying because she had awakened from her nap and could not see anyone immediately.
It was a small fear.
But to a three-year-old, small fears could feel enormous.
Elena held both of the little girl’s hands.
“Look at me.”
Sofia sniffled.
Elena smiled gently.
“Breathe in.”
The child copied her.
“One…”
Another breath.
“Two…”
Leo joined them from beside the toy shelf.
“Three.”
Elena smiled.
“Good.”
Then she said:
“If you lose sight of me, count to three. I always come back.”
Adrian stopped breathing.
The room disappeared around him.
For a moment he was no longer standing in the doorway.
He was back in another nursery.
Another year.
Another woman.
His wife, Claire, sitting beside two newborn babies during one of the hardest nights of their first months as parents.
Claire had invented that phrase.
At least Adrian had always believed she had.
Whenever one of the babies became distressed because she stepped away, Claire would return, touch their little hands, and whisper:
“If you lose sight of me, count to three. I always come back.”
It eventually became a family joke.
When Claire went downstairs:
“Count to three.”
When she left for the grocery store:
“I always come back.”
When Adrian traveled for work, she forced him to say it over video calls.
It was theirs.
Private.
Then Sofia looked at Elena through her tears and whispered:
“Mommy also used to say that.”
The smile disappeared from Elena’s face.
Adrian finally stepped into the room.
“Elena.”
She turned.
Something in his expression made her stand immediately.
“Mr. Cole?”
“Where did you hear that?”
She frowned.
“Hear what?”
“That sentence.”
Elena looked toward the twins.
Then back at him.
“I’m sorry. Did I say something wrong?”
“Where did you hear it?”
His voice was too sharp.
Sofia immediately became nervous.
Elena noticed.
She lowered her voice.
“A woman taught it to me.”
Adrian froze.
“What woman?”
Elena hesitated.
“In a hospital.”
“When?”
“A few years ago.”
His eyes moved downward.
That was when he saw it.
Around Elena’s left wrist was a thin red string bracelet.
Simple.
Almost faded.
A tiny silver bead at the center.
Adrian’s face went completely pale.
He knew that bracelet.
He had tied one exactly like it around Claire’s wrist less than twenty-four hours before she disappeared from his life.
“That bracelet…”
Elena instinctively touched it.
“What?”
Adrian stepped closer.
“Where did you get it?”
Her confusion turned to concern.
“The same woman.”
His heart pounded.
“What was her name?”
“I don’t know.”
Adrian stared at her.
Elena continued:
“She never told me.”
He could barely hear the next words over the sound of his own pulse.
“That bracelet was with my wife the night she died.”
Elena looked down at her wrist.
Then back at him.
And suddenly the quiet afternoon in the nursery became the beginning of a mystery Adrian had spent three years trying to forget.
Claire Cole had officially died on November 14, three years earlier.
At least that was what every record said.
The circumstances had never felt clean.
Claire had been driving home from visiting her mother when severe weather swept through the area.
Her vehicle was later found near a flooded section of highway.
Damaged.
Abandoned.
Her handbag remained inside.
Her phone was recovered nearby.
Search teams spent days looking.
A woman matching Claire’s description was later admitted unconscious to a regional hospital after being found near the flooded roadway.
According to the records Adrian received, she died before identification was fully confirmed.
DNA testing from personal items and medical evidence eventually linked the unidentified patient to Claire.
A closed casket funeral followed.
Adrian had buried the woman he loved without seeing her face.
He had hated that.
Doctors explained that the condition of the remains and delays during the storm complicated everything.
He accepted it because what else could he do?
The twins were only months old.
He had two babies.
A company to run.
A house that suddenly felt enormous.
And grief that seemed to occupy every room before he entered it.
Years passed.
He stopped questioning the official story.
Not because every doubt disappeared.
Because living inside doubt eventually became unbearable.
Now Elena stood in front of him wearing Claire’s bracelet.
Adrian asked the household manager to watch the twins.
Then he invited Elena into his office.
Not demanded.
Invited.
He had frightened her enough already.
She sat near the desk, still touching the bracelet.
Adrian remained standing.
“I owe you an apology.”
“For what?”
“I raised my voice.”
She nodded.
“Okay.”
He sat across from her.
“I need you to understand why.”
He opened his phone.
Scrolled through photographs.
Then placed one on the desk.
Claire was standing beside him at a charity dinner.
Red hair.
Green eyes.
Warm smile.
And around her wrist—
The red bracelet.
Elena stared.
Her expression changed.
Adrian noticed immediately.
“You recognize her.”
Elena did not answer.
“Elena.”
She looked frightened.
“I think so.”
Adrian leaned forward.
“From the hospital?”
“Yes.”
His entire body went cold.
“You met my wife.”
“I didn’t know that was your wife.”
“When?”
Elena thought.
“About three years ago.”
“How long after November fourteenth?”
She stared.
“That date…”
“What?”
“That might have been the night.”
Adrian stood.
“No.”
He walked toward the window.
Then turned.
“Tell me everything.”
Elena swallowed.
“I was nineteen.”
“I had just started working as a nursing assistant.”
“Not here.”
“At Saint Gabriel Regional Hospital.”
Adrian recognized the name.
Claire’s unidentified patient had supposedly been transferred through Saint Gabriel.
Elena continued.
“A storm caused several emergencies.”
“The hospital was chaotic.”
“Some patients came in without identification.”
“I was helping wherever they needed extra hands.”
“There was a woman.”
Adrian could barely sit still.
“What did she look like?”
“Red hair.”
“Some bruising.”
“She was confused.”
“But conscious?”
Elena nodded.
Adrian stared at her.
“The records say Claire was unconscious when she arrived.”
“I don’t know anything about the records.”
“I know what I saw.”
“She was awake.”
Those words cracked something inside him.
He sat down slowly.
“What did she say?”
“At first, almost nothing.”
“She kept asking about two babies.”
Adrian’s eyes filled.
“Sofia and Leo.”
Elena looked shaken.
“She said their names once.”
“You remember?”
“Yes.”
“Why didn’t you tell anyone?”
“I did.”
Adrian stared.
“What?”
“I told a nurse.”
“She told me the woman was confused and not to question her.”
Elena continued.
“Later that night, I brought her water.”
“She grabbed my wrist.”
“She was scared.”
“What did she say?”
Elena closed her eyes.
“She said, ‘If anything happens, tell my children I always came back.’”
Adrian looked away.
Tears filled his eyes.
Elena continued quietly.
“Then she took this bracelet off.”
“She gave it to me.”
“Why?”
“I asked.”
“She said, ‘So somebody remembers I was here.’”
The office became completely silent.
Adrian struggled to speak.
“Did she tell you her name?”
“No.”
“Did anyone?”
“No.”
“Did you see what happened to her afterward?”
Elena hesitated.
That hesitation immediately terrified him.
“What?”
“She disappeared.”
Adrian stared.
“What does that mean?”
“I came back the next morning.”
“The bed was empty.”
“I asked where she went.”
“They said she had been transferred.”
“To where?”
“Nobody would tell me.”
“And you just accepted that?”
Elena looked embarrassed.
“I was nineteen.”
“Temporary staff.”
“I thought maybe I had misunderstood.”
“Then two days later, my supervisor told me not to discuss unidentified patients.”
“Why?”
“She said privacy rules.”
Adrian leaned back.
This was not proof of conspiracy.
Hospitals moved patients constantly.
Privacy rules were real.
Temporary employees frequently lacked access to records.
He forced himself not to let grief interpret every detail.
“What happened next?”
“I quit a few weeks later.”
“Because of her?”
“Partly.”
“The whole night bothered me.”
Elena touched the bracelet.
“I kept this because she asked me to.”
“Then years later I started using the sentence with children I cared for.”
“Why?”
“Because I never forgot how she said it.”
Adrian stared at her.
“Why didn’t you recognize my family name when I hired you?”
Elena looked confused.
“Cole is common.”
“And I never saw photographs of your wife during the hiring process.”
That was true.
Adrian had removed most family photographs from public areas after Claire died.
Not because he wanted to erase her.
Because seeing her unexpectedly became unbearable.
He called his attorney that afternoon.
Then a private investigator.
Then, after several hours, the police liaison who had worked on Claire’s case.
Everyone told him the same thing:
Slow down.
Verify.
Do not decide Claire survived simply because Elena remembered a patient who resembled her.
Adrian hated hearing it.
But they were right.
The bracelet needed examination.
Hospital employment records needed verification.
Patient records needed legal access.
Dates needed to match.
Memories after three years could be imperfect.
So they investigated.
First:
Elena had worked at Saint Gabriel Regional Hospital exactly when she claimed.
Temporary employment records confirmed it.
Second:
Hospital logs showed an unidentified female patient arrived during the storm.
Approximate age matched Claire.
Hair color matched.
Injuries were consistent with exposure near the flood area.
Third:
The patient had been conscious intermittently.
That contradicted the summary Adrian had originally received.
His hands trembled when the investigator showed him.
“She was awake.”
“Yes.”
“Why did nobody tell me?”
“We don’t know yet.”
Then came the most disturbing detail.
The unidentified patient was transferred.
Not deceased.
Transferred.
The death report linked to Claire belonged to another unidentified patient admitted the same night.
Two women.
Similar ages.
Similar injuries.
Both unidentified initially.
Their records had been merged incorrectly during emergency intake.
Adrian stared at the investigator.
“You’re telling me I buried someone else?”
“We’re telling you there may have been a records error.”
“That’s not the same thing.”
“It may become the same thing.”
Adrian felt physically sick.
The investigation expanded immediately.
DNA evidence from the burial had to be reviewed.
Old laboratory records were obtained.
The original identification process had relied partly on personal-item comparison and incomplete genetic matching.
The storm had overwhelmed several facilities.
Paperwork moved between hospitals.
Names were entered incorrectly.
One patient became associated with another patient’s belongings.
A chain of errors that seemed impossible when explained together had apparently happened one small mistake at a time.
The body buried as Claire Cole was exhumed under legal supervision.
DNA testing produced the answer Adrian was terrified to hope for.
The remains were not Claire.
He sat in his car when the call came.
For almost an hour, he could not move.
His wife had not been buried three years earlier.
That did not mean she was alive now.
It meant only one thing.
They did not know what happened to her.
The certainty Adrian had painfully built his life around vanished overnight.
Grief returned.
Hope arrived beside it.
Hope was worse in some ways.
Hope asked questions.
The transferred patient from Saint Gabriel had been sent to a neurological rehabilitation center two counties away.
Why?
Head trauma.
Confusion.
Memory impairment.
No identification.
She remained there for eleven weeks.
Then she was transferred again into a supported residential program.
Adrian stared at the records.
“She lived for at least three months after the accident.”
“Yes.”
“Did nobody search the missing-person database?”
“They did.”
“And?”
“Claire’s case had already been marked deceased.”
The system stopped looking for a woman authorities believed had been found.
One administrative error had closed the door that should have connected them.
Adrian felt rage.
At the hospital.
At authorities.
At himself.
At everyone.
Then his investigator reminded him:
“Anger later.”
“Find her first.”
That became the mission.
The residential program had closed two years earlier.
Records were archived.
Staff scattered.
Several remembered the unidentified woman.
They had called her “Grace.”
She chose the name herself after seeing it written on a poster.
She remembered very little about her life.
Sometimes she mentioned children.
Sometimes a man named Adrian.
But staff believed these could be fragments from dreams or television because no identity match existed.
Adrian listened to an old staff member describe her.
“She loved music.”
“What kind?”
“Piano.”
Claire played piano.
“She hated oranges.”
Claire hated oranges.
“She folded towels perfectly.”
Claire had worked in her parents’ small hotel as a teenager.
Then the staff member said:
“She used to count to three whenever she became anxious.”
Adrian covered his face.
It was her.
He knew.
Evidence still needed to prove it.
But inside him, something already had.
“Where did Grace go?”
The woman opened an old record.
“She left with a community transition program.”
“Where?”
“North Harbor.”
Adrian stood.
North Harbor was less than ninety minutes away.
For three years, Claire might have been living ninety minutes from her children.
They found her six days later.
Not in a hospital.
Not imprisoned.
Not hidden by some sinister organization.
She worked in a small bakery.
The investigator showed Adrian a recent photograph first.
He almost dropped it.
Claire.
Older.
Hair shorter.
A faint scar along one temple.
But Claire.
Alive.
Adrian immediately wanted to drive there.
His attorney stopped him.
“She may not remember you.”
“I don’t care.”
“You will care when you’re standing in front of her.”
The words hurt.
But they were correct.
Claire had suffered severe memory impairment.
Her current life could not simply be invaded by a husband she did not remember.
So professionals contacted her carefully.
A clinician who had worked with her returned.
Police verified identity privately.
DNA confirmed it.
Grace was Claire Cole.
Then someone asked her whether she wanted to meet Adrian.
She said no.
That answer nearly destroyed him.
But he respected it.
Three days later, she changed her mind.
Adrian drove to a quiet counseling center.
No cameras.
No children yet.
No family members.
Just Adrian.
Claire.
And a therapist nearby.
He entered the room.
Claire was standing beside a window.
She turned.
Adrian stopped.
For three years he had imagined impossible reunions.
Running.
Crying.
Embracing.
Claire recognizing him instantly.
Reality was silent.
She looked at him like a stranger.
Adrian’s eyes filled.
“Hi.”
Claire swallowed.
“Hi.”
He smiled weakly.
“I’m Adrian.”
“I know.”
Her voice was familiar.
That alone almost broke him.
She sat.
He sat across from her.
Neither knew what to say.
Finally Claire asked:
“Were we happy?”
Adrian stared.
“Yes.”
Then corrected himself.
“Usually.”
She smiled slightly.
“That’s more believable.”
He laughed through tears.
“We argued.”
“About stupid things.”
“You stole blankets.”
“You left coffee cups everywhere.”
“You hated when I traveled.”
Claire listened carefully.
“Did I love you?”
Adrian’s voice broke.
“Yes.”
He paused.
“But I don’t expect that to tell you what you’re supposed to feel now.”
That sentence mattered.
Claire looked relieved.
“Thank you.”
Adrian nodded.
Then she asked:
“Can I see the children?”
He cried immediately.
“Yes.”
The twins did not understand what was happening.
They had photographs of their mother.
Stories.
Memories so early they were barely memories.
Sofia had remembered the phrase.
Leo remembered a song.
Before the meeting, professionals prepared everyone carefully.
Claire entered the room.
Sofia stared.
Leo hid behind Adrian.
Claire knelt.
She did not say:
I’m your mother.
She simply smiled.
“Hello.”
Sofia looked at her face.
Then at Adrian.
“Daddy?”
“Yes?”
“She looks like Mommy.”
Adrian nodded.
“She is Mommy.”
Sofia’s expression became confused.
Claire started crying.
Then Sofia asked:
“Why did you go away?”
The question nobody could answer simply.
Claire whispered:
“I got lost.”
Sofia considered.
Then walked closer.
Claire held out her hand.
Sofia took it.
Leo followed a minute later.
Then Claire said without thinking:
“If you lose sight of me…”
Sofia immediately answered:
“Count to three.”
Claire froze.
The memory hit her physically.
She covered her mouth.
“One…”
She whispered.
Sofia smiled.
“Two.”
Leo said:
“Three.”
Claire began sobbing.
Something had returned.
Not everything.
One fragment.
The nursery.
Babies.
That sentence.
Enough.
Elena met Claire weeks later.
She was terrified.
“I don’t know what to say.”
Claire looked toward the red bracelet still on Elena’s wrist.
“You kept it.”
“Yes.”
“For three years?”
“Yes.”
Claire touched it gently.
“I don’t remember giving it to you.”
Elena’s eyes filled.
“I remember.”
Claire smiled.
“Then maybe you can remember that part for me.”
Elena removed the bracelet.
She tried returning it.
Claire closed her hand around Elena’s instead.
“No.”
“Keep it.”
Elena stared.
“Are you sure?”
“You carried it longer than I did.”
She smiled.
“And apparently you carried my words too.”
That was true.
Without Elena repeating one sentence to a frightened toddler, nobody might have reopened the case.
At least not then.
Maybe ever.
The investigation into the hospital errors lasted much longer.
No grand villain emerged.
No deliberate conspiracy.
What happened was, in some ways, more unsettling.
A storm.
Overwhelmed emergency departments.
Two unidentified patients.
Incorrectly merged records.
A rushed identification process.
Poor communication between counties.
A missing-person case closed too early.
Each mistake looked small when isolated.
Together they stole three years from a family.
Saint Gabriel eventually acknowledged serious failures.
Other agencies reviewed their procedures.
New safeguards were introduced for unidentified patients and deceased-person matches.
Adrian pursued legal accountability.
But eventually his priorities changed.
He had Claire back.
Sort of.
That “sort of” mattered.
Claire did not immediately move home.
People around Adrian struggled to understand that.
“She’s your wife.”
“She was missing.”
“You finally found her.”
But Claire had built three years of life without knowing who Adrian was.
She had an apartment.
Friends.
Work.
A name people knew her by.
Grace.
She could not simply erase that because DNA restored the word Claire.
Adrian understood.
Painfully.
They began slowly.
Coffee.
Walks.
Family therapy.
Time with the twins.
Old photographs only when Claire requested them.
Adrian learned not to say:
“You used to…”
Too often.
Claire finally told him:
“Every time you tell me who I used to be, I feel like I’m failing her.”
Adrian stopped.
“You don’t owe me the old Claire.”
She stared.
“Really?”
“I miss her.”
He was honest.
“But you’re here.”
“And I want to know you too.”
That became the beginning of something new.
Memories returned unpredictably.
The smell of cinnamon triggered Christmas morning.
A piano melody brought back her mother.
One of Adrian’s shirts made her remember folding laundry while arguing about vacation plans.
Sometimes the memories were beautiful.
Sometimes they made her panic.
Recovery was not a straight line.
One afternoon she suddenly remembered the accident.
Rain.
Headlights.
Water.
Then nothing.
She shook for almost an hour.
Another day she remembered holding the twins after they were born.
That memory made her cry with joy.
Adrian stopped measuring progress by how much she remembered.
He measured it by whether she felt safe enough to continue living.
That was healthier for both of them.
Two years after being found, Claire chose to move back into the family home.
Not because all her memories returned.
They never completely did.
She moved back because she and Adrian had fallen in love again.
Different people.
Same history.
New relationship.
One evening Adrian asked:
“Does it feel strange falling in love with your husband?”
Claire smiled.
“You’re assuming I’m in love with you.”
He looked offended.
“You moved into my house.”
“Excellent rent.”
He laughed.
Then she kissed him.
The twins groaned dramatically from the kitchen.
Normal family life had returned in a form nobody could have predicted.
Elena remained their nanny for several years.
Eventually she finished university and became a child-development specialist.
Adrian offered to pay for everything.
She refused anything that felt like a reward for “finding Claire.”
“I didn’t find her.”
“You reopened the door.”
“That’s different.”
He respected that.
The Cole Foundation later created a scholarship for young caregivers pursuing education.
It was open to everyone.
Elena applied normally.
She received one.
That suited her better.
Sofia grew older and became fascinated by the bracelet story.
At thirteen, she asked Elena:
“Did you know Mom was alive when you said the phrase?”
“No.”
“So it was just coincidence?”
Elena thought.
“The phrase wasn’t coincidence.”
“Your mother gave it to me.”
“But me working for your family years later?”
She smiled.
“That part was pretty strange.”
Sofia looked toward Claire.
“Mom, do you believe in fate?”
Claire laughed.
“I believe paperwork should be checked twice.”
Everyone laughed.
After everything, that was her preferred philosophy.
The family resisted the more sensational versions of the story.
Online posts eventually claimed Elena was Claire’s secret sister.
False.
Others claimed Claire had been deliberately hidden by doctors.
Also false.
One video said the bracelet contained a tracking device.
Claire laughed for five minutes when she saw that.
“It was string.”
Adrian smiled.
“A very advanced string.”
The truth required fewer conspiracies and more patience.
A young hospital worker had shown kindness to an unidentified woman.
That woman gave her a bracelet and a sentence.
Years later, the same young woman happened to work for the unidentified woman’s family.
She repeated the sentence.
A father noticed.
Then instead of dismissing the impossible connection, people checked.
That was enough.
Adrian eventually met the family of the woman who had mistakenly been buried as Claire.
That was one of the hardest parts.
She had a name.
Melissa Warren.
Thirty-two.
Estranged from much of her family.
Missing at the time of the storm, but her disappearance had not been reported immediately.
Her family spent years not knowing where she was while Adrian mistakenly visited her grave.
He apologized.
Melissa’s sister stopped him.
“You didn’t do this.”
“I buried her under my wife’s name.”
“You didn’t know.”
They corrected the grave.
Held a proper memorial.
Adrian attended quietly.
That mattered to Claire.
“Our happy ending began with another family getting terrible news.”
She refused to forget that.
Truth repaired one family while reopening grief for another.
Life rarely arranged itself into perfectly satisfying endings.
Years later, Claire spoke at a hospital conference about unidentified-patient procedures.
She stood beside Adrian.
Not as a medical expert.
As someone whose life had been changed by system failures.
She said:
“I spent years believing nobody wanted me because I couldn’t remember who I belonged to.”
“Meanwhile, my family believed I was dead.”
“The tragedy was not that nobody cared.”
“Many people cared.”
“They simply had different pieces of information that never met.”
That sentence became central to reforms inspired by the case.
Information had existed.
The connection had failed.
Claire looked toward Elena in the audience.
“One person remembered a sentence.”
“That sentence eventually connected the pieces.”
Elena cried.
Again.
She always cried when Claire told the story.
On the tenth anniversary of Claire’s return, the twins organized a small family dinner.
No gala.
No speeches.
At least that was the plan.
Leo stood.
“I have something.”
Claire groaned.
“You promised no speeches.”
“This is short.”
He held up a tiny wooden box.
Inside was the old red bracelet.
Elena had eventually returned it years after leaving the household.
Claire rarely wore it because the string had become fragile.
Leo had placed it safely under glass.
A small inscription read:
COUNT TO THREE.
Claire stared.
Sofia completed it:
“And always come back.”
Claire’s eyes filled.
She looked around the table.
Adrian.
The twins.
Elena.
Friends.
Family.
A life she had lost once.
Then rebuilt.
She smiled.
“I did.”
Adrian took her hand.
“Yes.”
“You did.”
The original twenty-second version of the story ended at the perfect cliffhanger.
A nanny calming two frightened toddlers.
“If you lose sight of me, count to three. I always come back.”
A child looks up.
“Mommy also used to say that.”
The father freezes.
The nanny explains:
“A woman in a hospital told me that years ago.”
Then he sees the thin red bracelet.
His face changes.
“That bracelet was with my wife the night she died…”
And the question becomes irresistible:
Did his wife give the bracelet to the nanny?
Yes.
She did.
But that answer created a much larger question.
If Claire gave away the bracelet after the night everyone believed she died…
How could she have been dead?
She wasn’t.
Not then.
The mystery was not a secret murderer.
Not a hidden twin.
Not an elaborate conspiracy.
It was a chain of human errors, incomplete information, memory loss, and one incorrect conclusion accepted for too long.
That truth was less dramatic than a villain.
It was also more frightening in its own way.
Because no single evil person had to create the disaster.
Several ordinary failures were enough.
And the thing that finally corrected them was equally ordinary.
A sentence.
A bracelet.
A child paying attention.
A father asking one more question.
Claire eventually stopped calling the years she had lost “the missing years.”
They were not missing to her.
She had lived them.
As Grace.
In rehabilitation.
In a small apartment.
At a bakery.
They belonged to her too.
Just as the years Adrian spent raising the twins alone belonged to him.
Their family was not restored by pretending those years had never happened.
They healed by allowing both versions of their lives to remain true.
Claire had been lost.
She had also built another life.
Adrian had grieved a wife who was alive.
He had also become a father capable of raising two children alone.
Elena had carried a stranger’s bracelet without knowing why it mattered.
The twins had grown up believing their mother was gone.
Then everyone had to learn one another again.
That became the real story.
Not a miracle.
Not fate alone.
A second chance made possible because someone remembered.
Years later, when Sofia became frightened before leaving home for university, Claire stood at the front door.
Her daughter hugged her.
“What if I hate it?”
“Then call.”
“What if I get lost?”
Claire smiled.
Sofia smiled too.
They had said the words thousands of times by then.
Still, Claire repeated them.
“If you lose sight of me…”
Sofia answered:
“Count to three.”
Claire touched her daughter’s cheek.
“And?”
Sofia’s eyes filled.
“You always come back.”
Claire nodded.
“Always.”