The two girls bolted before their parents could stop them.

Their small shoes slapped against the wet stones. Their pale blue dresses billowed in the cold afternoon air.

Tourists turned to look. Coffee cups froze halfway to lips.

On the other side of the plaza, an old woman sat alone on a stone step. She wore clothes in faded earth tones, her gray hair loose and windblown, her eyes fixed on the ground — as if she had long since stopped expecting anyone to notice her.

She didn’t see the girls coming until they crashed straight into her arms.

One fell into her lap instantly.

The other threw her small arms around the woman’s neck, pressing her face into the folds of the woman’s worn coat, as if she had finally found home.

The old woman went rigid.

Her hands hovered above them, trembling in the air, as though she was afraid to touch them.

Then one of the girls reached up and gently stroked her cheek.

The woman’s face collapsed.

Behind them, the mother stopped so abruptly that a strangled cry escaped her throat.

Oh my God.

The father arrived seconds later, breathless, confused, hands raised in bewilderment.

What’s going on?

The two girls only held on tighter. One of them leaned in and whispered something into the old woman’s ear.

She closed her eyes, as if the words had reopened a wound buried long ago.

The mother stepped closer, barely able to speak.

How do they know you?

The old woman slowly lifted her gaze, tears cutting paths down her lined face.

Then she whispered:

“They have my daughter’s eyes.”