She lingered beside the glass displays of wartime photographs—families before evacuation, soldiers boarding trains, a line of refugees walking past houses startlingly similar to hers. In one picture, she thought she recognized her street, though a smaller house stood where Mrs. Wenham’s garden now bloomed.
That evening, she called Harris back. “I’d like you to open a small section,” she said. “Just enough to see what’s there.” They agreed on a morning when Emma would be at school. After hanging up, Lucy walked into the bedroom and rested her fingertips against the wall, as if warning it.