She lifted the locket slightly, just barely, just enough, the gesture of a woman holding up evidence.
"I have a husband," she said. "I don't remember his face yet. I don't remember his voice or his name or the life we had. But I know he is out there." She pressed a hand flat against her chest, just above the locket.
Then Ruby's knees hit the floor before she could stop them.
It wasn't a dramatic fall, not the kind that makes noise and draws attention. It was the quiet collapse of a person whose body had simply decided it could not hold everything upright anymore.
Her legs folded, and she went down slowly, one hand catching the edge of the bed frame on the way, and she knelt there on the thin carpet of the unfamiliar room with her other hand pressed flat against the side of her head now as though she could physically hold the pieces together through pressure alone.
Her head.
