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But when the results came up, they were the same as ever.

Tristan Berousek had lost his life at Auschwitz in the fall of 1942.

It was right there in black and white, the same definitive proof of a life that had ended far too soon.

So what did that mean? Was there another Tristan out there, one with the same age and from the same neighborhood, who’d been among those who survived?

But if there was, why hadn’t his name appeared on any deportation documents?

She searched again for the first name Tristan, entering Paris as the search location, but there wasn’t another person with that first name anywhere to be found on any of the deportation lists.

When she broadened the search to include all of France, the answer was the same.

Tristan Berousek from the eleventh arrondissement had been the only person with that first name to appear in any of the documents, and he’d died in 1942.

She pulled up Google and typed in Tristan Berousek’s full name, thinking that perhaps she would find some trace of him after Auschwitz if he’d lived, but nothing came up that seemed to match anyone who’d been a teen in the 1940s, even when she tried variations of the spelling of his surname.

Finally, she sighed and slipped the phone back into her handbag, feeling bereft.

Maybe back in the States, Aviva could help her comb through records, but if there was no trace of Tristan anywhere, how would they find him?

Colette read the letter over again and again, letting the words burn their way into her heart.

The boy had lived. He had lived . And though she felt a sense of gratitude and elation to know that he hadn’t perished in the camps, she also felt a deep despair.

He would be a year or so older than her now—ninety or ninety-one.

She was still in decent shape, both physically and cognitively, but she knew that most people her age were not.

The odds that he was still alive after all these years were slim, especially after what he must have suffered.

And even if he had somehow survived, what were the odds that his memory was still intact?

No, she had found him and lost him all over again, in the space of just a few moments.

It was an hour later by the time she rose to her feet, folded the letter carefully into her pocket, and slid the brick back into place for what she knew would be the last time.

The sun was setting as she returned to the hotel, and she was surprised to find Daniel sitting in the lobby.

He jumped to his feet the moment she walked through the door, relief written all over his face.

“I’ve been so worried,” he said, quickly hurrying over to put an arm around her.

“Where have you been, Colette? What’s happened? ”

She knew just from the way he was looking at her that her devastation must have been written all over her face.

“I had somewhere I needed to go,” she said, her voice cracking.

“I needed to say goodbye to someone.” She wanted to tell him, to unburden herself to someone who she knew would care, but she didn’t know how to explain Tristan’s significance to her, the way his disappearance had left a hole in her heart, and the fact that knowing he had lived after all wasn’t the salve it should have been.

She had known him for only six weeks before he was taken away, after all.

If she tried to tell Daniel that a part of her heart had gone missing years ago with a boy she hardly knew, he would think her mad.

She felt an overwhelming sense of loss that she didn’t yet have words for, and she was exhausted by all of it.

“Are you all right?”

“I will be.” She looked up at him. “I’m afraid, though, that I don’t feel much like being a tourist tonight.

” They had planned to take a stroll by the Seine before having dinner near the Eiffel Tower, but despite the fact that this would perhaps be Colette’s last night ever in Paris, all she wanted to do was sleep.

“Of course. Let me walk you to your room,” Daniel said.

“I loved a boy once,” she said, trying for the right words as he opened her door with the key she’d handed him. “And I’ve just learned that he survived the war after all. But I never knew, and now it’s too late. How many losses can one person bear in a lifetime, Daniel? How many?”

“Oh, Colette.” She could see in his eyes that he felt her pain in his own bones, and that meant more to her than anything. “I’m very sorry.”

Moments later, curled on her side, she sobbed into her pillow until she drifted off into a dreamless slumber. Daniel stayed with her, rubbing her back, until she was asleep, and when she awoke the next morning, he was still there, lying atop the covers beside her, his own eyes closed.

Maybe, she thought, the resurfacing of the bracelet had brought her more than just a window to the past. Maybe it had also brought her a true friend, the kind who understood when her heart was broken and who stayed to help her pick up the pieces.

As she got out of bed, he stirred, opening his eyes and slowly focusing on her. “Are you all right?” he asked.

“I will be,” she said. “Thank you, Daniel, for last night. For being a friend. I’m very glad you’re here.”

He smiled. “I’m glad I’m here, too, Colette.”

Now, there was just one thing left to do. It was time to return to Boston to bury the man who may well have killed her sister.