I looked at my mother.
"What do you mean it wasn't the original?"
She stared at the photograph.
"The original family portrait had nine people."
I counted again.
Nine people I recognized.
Then I noticed the girl.
Clara made ten.
My mother shook her head.
"The photograph was taken six years after Clara disappeared. Your grandfather knew she couldn't have been there."
"Then how did she get into it?"
"He didn't know."
"Did anyone see her?"
"My grandmother did."
I looked toward the kitchen.
"She saw Clara?"
"Not at first."
My mother lowered her voice.
"She saw her in the photographs."
A chill ran through me.
"Then what happened?"
"Your grandfather destroyed every photograph he could find."
"Except this one."
"Except this one."
I looked at the photograph again.
The girl seemed almost peaceful.
Then I noticed the boy beneath the apple tree.
"Why did Daniel want his photograph back?"
My mother closed her eyes.
"I don't know."
"You do."
She looked at me.
"I know what my father believed."
"What?"
"He believed Daniel had never really left."
The room became silent.
My mother continued.
"After Daniel died, my father said he could hear him calling from the woods."
"And Clara?"
"Clara said Daniel was lonely."
I felt a strange pressure in my chest.
"What happened the night she came back?"
My mother wiped her eyes.
"She stood outside the kitchen window."
"Alone?"
"Yes."
"What did she say?"
"She told my father that Daniel wanted his photograph back."
"Which photograph?"
"The family portrait."
"Why?"
"I don't know."
My mother looked toward the ceiling.
"That's when my father became convinced Clara had brought something back with her."
"What happened next?"
"He went into the woods."
"And?"
"He never told anyone what he saw."
My mother paused.
"But after that night, Clara disappeared again."
I stared at her.
"Again?"
She nodded.
"Years later, the family began seeing her in photographs."
My phone suddenly buzzed.
I looked at the screen.
A new photograph had appeared in my gallery.
I hadn't taken it.
My hands shook as I opened it.
It showed the old family trunk in the attic.
The window was behind it.
And beside the window stood Clara.
She was pointing toward the attic door.
I slowly looked up.
The attic door was open.
My mother grabbed my wrist.
"Don't."
"She wants us to go up there."
"No."
"Why?"
My mother stared at the photograph.
"Because Clara never appeared to us for no reason."
"What does she want?"
My grandmother's voice came from behind us.
"The truth."
We turned.
She was standing in the doorway.
And she was crying.