"I know something that you don't know," said her Buddha.

Oh, what was it, what could it be?
And yet she had always felt there was...

something.
The sunlight pressed through the windows, thieved its way in, flashed its light over the furniture and the photographs.

Josephine watched it.
When it came to mother's photograph, the enlargement over the piano, it lingered as though puzzled to find so little remained of mother, except the earrings shaped like tiny pagodas and a black feather boa.

Why did the photographs of dead people always fade so?
wondered Josephine.