She brought the photograph. She told herself she wasn't going to. She spent Tuesday and Wednesday telling herself this, with the photograph face-down on the kitchen table, and then face-up, and then inside a drawer where she couldn't see it. On Wednesday night she took it out of the drawer and put it in her bag, not as a decision but as an acknowledgment that the decision had already been made without her. The photograph was small, black and white, with the soft edges of something that has been held many times. Her grandmother had kept it in a tin with other things that never got spoken about — a button, a letter in handwriting that wasn't hers, a folded piece of paper with a word on it in Breton. Mara had inherited the tin three years ago and understood, immediately, that it was not the kind of inheritance you questioned. You simply received it and took it home and put it in your own drawer and waited for the right occasion, if the right occasion ever came. The lower street of Carros