Hannah learned that her birthmark wasn’t a curse. It was a marker. A signpost. A piece of her story that had led her back to where she belonged.
The woman in the photo, her birth mother, had been a painter. She’d left behind letters, paintings, a whole body of work waiting for the daughter she’d lost. She’d always believed Hannah would find her way back.
A birthmark was a bridge. It was the thing that had separated her from everyone else, the source of so much isolation, and yet it was also the thing that made her recognizable to people who had been searching for her.
Hannah saw the wine-colored mark on her cheek differently now. It wasn’t an imperfection. It was a clue. A connection. A legacy her mother had passed down to her.
The Dance with Leo
Prom night arrived on a Saturday. Hannah went in a midnight blue dress with a flower in her hair—not covering her face, but sitting to the side, where the birthmark was clearly visible.
