The photograph arrived at the Boston Historical Society in a worn manila envelope unmarked except for a faded postal stamp from 1952.
Inside, protected by tissue paper that crumbled at the edges, lay a sepia toned portrait.
A mother and her two daughters frozen in time from 1888.
The [bell] image showed three women dressed in their finest clothes, seated in a photographer studio with painted backdrops of pastoral scenes behind them.
Their faces were solemn, as was customary for the era, their hands folded neatly in their laps.
Dr.Sarah Mitchell, a restoration specialist who had spent [music] 15 years breathing new life into forgotten photographs, held the image up to the light streaming through her office window.
The paper was brittle, the corners dogeared from decades of handling.
Someone had cherished this photograph once, she thought, noting how carefully it had been preserved [music] despite its age.
Another mystery for the collection, she murmured to herself, placing it gently on her workstation.
The society had recently acquired new software capable of colorizing and enhancing historical photographs [music] with remarkable accuracy.
Sarah had been eager to test its capabilities on their older acquisitions, [music] and this anonymous portrait seemed like the perfect candidate.
She carefully positioned the photograph under her scanner, adjusting the settings to capture every detail, every crack in the aging emulsion, every subtle gradation of tone.
As the scan completed, Sarah transferred the file to her computer and opened the colorization program.
She’d done this hundreds of times before, watching black and white images transform into living color.
[music] Seeing the past rendered in hues that made history feel immediate and real.
Red bricks, blue skies, [music] the warm brown of wooden furniture, green leaves on painted backdrops.
She selected the automated enhancement option first, letting the algorithm analyze the image and suggest improvements.
The progress bar crawled across her screen.
Outside, the sounds of Boston traffic hummed distantly.
Car horns, the rumble of the subway beneath [music] the street, the chatter of pedestrians on their lunch breaks.
Sarah sipped her coffee, now cold, and waited.
When the enhanced image appeared on her screen, she leaned forward instinctively.
The colors were stunning.
The mother’s dark blue dress, the daughter’s cream colored blouses, the subtle pink in their cheeks.
But something else had emerged, too.
Something the original photograph had hidden in shadow in sepia.
On the eldest daughter’s wrist, barely visible but unmistakably present, was a mark.
Sarah’s hand froze on her mouse as she stared at the screen.
She zoomed in, her heart beating faster with each click.
The mark was small, perhaps an inch in diameter, located just above the eldest daughter’s left wrist, where her sleeve had pulled back slightly.
In the original sepia photograph, it had been invisible, lost in the uniform brown tones of aged paper and fading [music] ink, but the colorization had revealed it clearly, a circular brand, reddish brown against pale skin.
She’d seen marks like this before, though never on a photograph quite like this one.
During her graduate studies, Sarah had researched industrial labor practices in 19th century New England.
[music] the textile mills, the factories, the workshops.
They had their own brutal systems of organization and control.
Some facilities had marked their workers, particularly children, with stamps or brands to track attendants, prevent theft of materials, or identify those bound by exploitative contracts.
But this photograph [music] told a different story on its surface.
These weren’t factory workers posing in grime stained clothes.
The mother wore an elaborate dress with lace details at the collar, likely her [music] finest garment.
The daughters were clean, their hair carefully arranged, their posture dignified.
Everything about the composition suggested a family of means, or at least a family aspiring [music] to respectability.
Sarah pulled out her magnifying loop and examined the original photograph [music] directly.
Even knowing where to look, the mark was nearly impossible to see without the digital enhancement.
[music] Whoever had taken this photograph had either been unaware of it or had deliberately positioned the eldest daughter [music] in a way that minimized its visibility.
The slight angle of her arm, the careful draping of fabric, it could have been intentional.
She reached for her phone and dialed Thomas Chen, the society’s senior archivist.
Thomas had an encyclopedic knowledge of Boston’s immigrant communities and industrial history.
If anyone could help her understand what she was seeing, it would be [music] him.
Thomas, it’s Sarah.
I need you to come to the restoration lab.
I found something unusual.
20 minutes later, Thomas stood beside her workstation, his reading glasses perched on his nose as he studied both the original photograph and its colorized version.
He was quiet for a long moment, his expression growing more serious.
“Do you know what this is?” Sarah asked.
Thomas nodded slowly.
I’ve seen documentation of similar marks.
The textile mills in Lawrence and Lel used them in the 1880s.
Some of the smaller factories here in Boston, too.
Thomas pulled up a chair beside Sarah’s workstation, his fingers already moving across his tablet to access the historical society’s digital archives.
The afternoon light had shifted, casting long shadows across the restoration lab.
Outside, clouds gathered over Boston Harbor, promising rain.
The marks varied by factory, Thomas explained, pulling up several historical documents.
Some used ink stamps that wore off after a few days.
Others used metal brands heated just enough to leave a permanent mark without causing severe burns.
They claimed it was for identification purposes to prevent workers from moving between factories [music] without settling their debts.
Sarah felt her stomach tighten.
Debts.
The contract system, Thomas said, [music] his voice heavy with the weight of history.
Immigrant families, especially those fleeing poverty in Europe, would sign contracts with factory owners.
The owners would advance them money for passage, for housing, for food.
In return, the workers, including children, would labor until the debt was paid.
Except the debt never seemed to get paid.
The interest, the fees, [music] the deductions for damaged materials or missed days.
It was a system designed to trap [music] people.
He zoomed in on a labor report from 1887, pointing to a paragraph that described conditions in Boston’s garment district.
By the late 1880s, there was growing public awareness of these [music] practices.
Journalists were starting to investigate.
Labor reformers were organizing.
[music] Some factory owners became more careful about hiding evidence.
Sarah looked back at the photograph with new understanding.
[music] So this portrait, it wasn’t just a family photo.
Look at their expressions, Thomas said.
Really, look.
Sarah studied the faces more carefully.
The mother’s eyes held something beyond the typical Victorian seriousness.
There was a hardness there, a determination.
The youngest [music] daughter, perhaps 8 years old, looked frightened despite her attempt to sit still.
But the eldest daughter, the one with the [music] mark, stared directly at the camera with an expression that could only be described as defiant.
“They knew this photograph would last,” Sarah said softly.
“They wanted to document something.” Thomas nodded.
“The question is what and why? [music] We need to find out who they were.
He opened a new search window, accessing the society’s database of Victorian era portrait studios.
The photograph has no photographers’s mark on the front, but look here.
He turned over the original, pointing to a faint stamp barely visible on the back.
Hawthorne Studio, Washington Street.
Sarah’s pulse quickened.
I know that studio.
They catered to middle-class clients mostly, not the wealthy elite, but not the desperately poor either.
Someone would have had to save considerably to afford a sitting there.
The following morning, Sarah and Thomas stood outside 847 Washington Street in downtown Boston.
The building that once housed Hawthorne Studio had been demolished decades ago, replaced by a modern glass and steel structure housing a bank and several small businesses.
Rain drizzled steadily, turning the sidewalks dark and slick.
The studio operated from 1882 to 1894, Thomas said, consulting his notes on his tablet while huddling under an umbrella.
The owner was a man named Robert Hawthorne, a photographer who trained in New York before opening his own establishment here.
According to city directories, he specialized in family portraits and [music] maintained a reputation for quality work at reasonable prices.
Sarah gazed up at where the studio would have stood on the building’s second floor.
She tried to imagine the mother and daughters climbing those stairs perhaps on a day much like this one, preparing themselves for a photograph that would outlast them by more than a century.
“Did Hawthorne keep records?” she asked.
“Client names, dates, [music] anything.” “That’s why we’re here,” Thomas replied, gesturing toward a door beside the bank.
The building may be gone, but the Boston Public Library has a collection of business records from that era.
I made some calls yesterday.
They have three boxes of materials related to Hawthorne Studio, ledgers, correspondents, some glass plate negatives that survived.
The library’s special collections room smelled of old paper and preservation chemicals.
A librarian named Patricia wheeled out a cart containing the Hawthorne studio materials.
Her movements careful and practiced.
She wore white cotton gloves which she provided to Sarah and Thomas as well.
These haven’t been digitized yet, Patricia explained.
You’re actually the first researchers to request them in about 5 years.
Take your time, [music] but please handle everything with care.
The first ledger Thomas opened dated from 1886 [music] to 1889, exactly the period they needed.
The entries were handwritten in a precise slanting script.
names, dates, [music] descriptions of services rendered, prices paid.
January [music] 1888, February, March.
Thomas’s finger traced down the pages, looking for any entry from later that year that might match their photograph.
Sarah, meanwhile, examined a box of correspondents.
[music] Letters from clients requesting appointments, notes about payment arrangements, a few complaints about delayed deliveries.
Then near the bottom of the stack, she found something different.
A letter written on cheap paper.
The ink faded, but still legible.
Thomas, she said quietly.
Look at this.
The letter was dated September 15th, 1888.
It read, “Mr.
Hawthorne, I am writing to request your services for a portrait sitting.
I understand your rates and am prepared to pay in full.
It is most urgent that this photograph be taken before the month’s end.
I have three subjects, myself and my two daughters.
Please respond at your earliest convenience.
A concerned mother.
Thomas leaned over Sarah’s shoulder, reading the letter carefully.
No signature, he noted.
Just a concerned mother.
But look at the postmark.
Sarah held the envelope up to the light.
The stamp was partially smudged, but she could make out enough.
September 16th, 1888, Boston.
The return address written in the same careful hand as the letter read a Kowalsski 14 Salem Street.
Salem Street, Thomas repeated, already pulling up a map on his tablet.
That’s in the north end.
In [music] 1888, that area was predominantly immigrant housing.
Polish, Irish, Italian families.
The apartments were crowded, the buildings old even then.
Sarah felt a surge of energy.
They had a name now, or at least part of one.
a Kowalsski.
[music] She turned back to the ledger, searching for any entry that matched.
Thomas helped both of them scanning pages with renewed focus.
Here, Thomas said, his [music] finger stopping on an entry from September 28th, 1888.
Portrait sitting, three [music] subjects, a Kowalsski, paid in full, $2.50.
$2.50.
Sarah knew from her research that such an amount would have represented weeks of savings for a factory worker.
This wasn’t a casual expense.
This was sacrifice, deliberate, and meaningful.
We need to find out more about Anna Kowalsski, Sarah said, already making notes.
Census records, immigration documents, anything [music] that can tell us who she was and what happened to her family.
Back at the historical society that afternoon, they accessed the 1890 census records, the closest available to 1888.
The census takers handwriting was difficult to [music] decipher.
The ink spotted with age, but eventually they found the entry.
Anna Kowalsski, [music] age 34, birthplace Poland, occupation seamstress.
Living with her were two daughters, Helena, age 15, [music] and Maria, age nine.
Seamstress, Thomas said.
But look at this notation.
He pointed [music] to a mark beside Anna’s occupation.
It says Lowel Mills, contract worker.
Sarah’s chest tightened.
The Lel Mills were notorious in labor history.
Built in the early 19th century as model factories, by the 1880s, they had become symbols of exploitation, [music] particularly of immigrant women and children who worked 14-hour days in deafening, dangerous conditions.
So Anna worked in Lel, but she lived in Boston.
Sarah [music] said that’s a long commute even now.
In 1888, it would have meant taking a train, probably leaving before dawn and returning after dark.
Unless she worked in one of the satellite operations, Thomas suggested the Lel Mills had contracting arrangements with smaller factories throughout Boston.
They’d send materials out to be finished by peace workers.
Anna might have been doing garment work at home or in a local workshop.
Sarah thought of the photograph again, the mother’s determined expression, the eldest daughter’s defiance.
Helena would have been 15 in 1888, old enough to work alongside her mother, old enough to bear a mark on her wrist.
Sarah spent the next two days buried in newspaper archives, searching for any mention of Anna Kowalsski or the Lowel Mills in 1888.
The Boston Globe, the Boston Herald, smaller publications.
She scanned hundreds of pages, her eyes burning from the microfilm reader bright [music] light.
On the third day, she found it.
The Boston Herald, October 12th, 1888.
Page 4.
A small article easily overlooked.
Local woman testifies against mill contractor Anna Kowalsski, [music] a seamstress employed through the Lowel Mills Contracting System, provided testimony yesterday before the Massachusetts Labor Commission regarding conditions in workshops operated by Mr.
Edward Brennan of Atlantic Avenue.
[music] Mrs.
Kowalsski described practices including mandatory overtime without compensation, physical punishment of workers who failed to meet quotas, and the marking of employees with heated brands [music] to prevent their movement to other establishments.
Mrs.
Kowalsski’s testimony was corroborated by her eldest daughter, [music] Helena, age 15, who bore visible marks on her wrist from such branding.
The commission has indicated it will investigate Mr.
Brennan’s operations further.
Sarah’s hands trembled as she printed the article.
This was it.
This was the connection.
The photograph had been taken [music] just 2 weeks before Anna and Helena testified.
It wasn’t simply a family portrait.
It was evidence, documentation, a record of what they looked like before they became witnesses, before they put themselves in danger.
She called Thomas immediately.
I found the testimony.
Anna and Helena spoke before the labor commission in October 1888.
They exposed the branding practices.
That took enormous courage, Thomas said.
Testifying against your employer in that era could mean blacklisting, eviction, even physical retaliation.
Do you know what happened afterward? Sarah didn’t.
Not yet.
But she knew where to look next.
The labor commission’s records were held at the Massachusetts State Archives.
If Anna and Helena had testified, there would be transcripts, possibly follow-up documentation.
The archives were housed in a modern facility in Dorchester.
A staff member directed Sarah to the Labor Commission files, boxes organized by year and case number.
The 1888 records filled an entire shelf.
Sarah pulled down the box labeled October December, and began searching.
The transcripts were typed on thin paper.
The letters slightly uneven from an old typewriter.
She found Anna’s testimony filed under Brennan investigation case 184.
23 pages of questions and answers detailing months of abuse and exploitation.
Anna’s voice preserved across 131 years spoke clearly from the page.
My daughter Helena began working with me when she was 12 years old.
We needed the money to pay our rent and to send something to my mother in Poland.
Mr.
Brennan said we could earn more if we took materials home to finish, but the rates he paid were less than he promised.
When Helena tried to find work at another shop, [music] Mr.
Brennan had her marked with a hot iron brand.
He said it was to show she was still under contract to him, [music] that she owed him money for materials she had supposedly damaged.
Sarah sat in the quiet archives room, reading [music] through page after page of testimony.
Anna’s words painted a picture of systematic exploitation.
Workers [music] trapped in cycles of debt.
Children forced to labor in cramped workshops.
Families threatened with deportation [music] if they complained.
But woven through the harsh details was also a story of remarkable courage.
Helena’s testimony given when she was just 15 years old was even more striking.
She described the day she was branded with clinical precision as if removing emotion might make [music] the memory bearable.
It was July 14th, 1888.
I had told Mr.
Brennan I wanted to work at the new shirt waist factory on Hanover Street because [music] they paid better wages.
He called me into his office.
Two other men were there.
They held my arm while Mr.
Brennan pressed the heated brand against [music] my wrist.
He said it would remind me that I belonged to him until my mother’s debt was settled.
Sarah had to stop reading, her eyes wet.
She thought of the photograph again, taken just 2 months after Helena was branded 6 weeks before the testimony.
Anna had saved money during those terrible weeks, scraping together $2.50 for something that must have seemed almost frivolous when they barely had enough to eat.
But it wasn’t frivolous.
The photograph was strategy.
It was proof.
It was a record that they existed, that they mattered, that what had been done to them was real.
Sarah returned to the testimony transcripts, looking for what happened after Anna and Helena spoke before the commission.
The follow-up reports began in November 1888.
Investigators from the labor commission had visited Brennan’s workshop on Atlantic Avenue.
They documented 14 workers, including nine children under the age of 16.
They found evidence of the branding tools, small metal stamps with identifying marks kept in a drawer beside a small coal stove used to heat them.
Edward Brennan was charged with multiple violations of Massachusetts labor laws.
The case went to trial in January 1889.
Sarah found the court records in another box, the judge’s rulings carefully preserved.
Brennan was fined $200 and ordered to release all workers from their contracts without requiring payment of remaining debts.
It was a victory, however small.
But Sarah knew from her research that such victories often came at a terrible personal cost.
Workers who testified against their employers were rarely welcomed back.
Other factory owners, [music] protective of their own interests, would refuse to hire them.
Landlords, many of whom had business relationships with the factories, might evict them.
She needed to know what happened to Anna, Helena, [music] and young Maria after the trial.
Did they stay in Boston? Did they find work? Did they survive? The 1900 census records provided part of the answer.
Sarah found them living at a new address, 267 Hanover Street, in a building that housed several Polish immigrant families.
Anna was listed as a dress maker working from home.
Helena, now 27, [music] was listed as a teacher at a local settlement house.
Maria, 19, [music] worked as a clerk in a department store.
They had survived.
More than [music] that, they had built new lives.
Sarah stood outside the old brick building on Hanover Street that had once been the North End settlement house.
Now converted into condominiums, it retained its original facade.
arched windows, stone [music] lentils, a weathered plaque beside the door commemorating its founding in 1891.
Thomas had found references to Helena Kowalsski in the settlement houses records, [music] which were now held at Northeastern University’s library.
Helena had started as a student there, learning English and basic mathematics in evening classes.
By 1895, she had become an instructor herself, teaching literacy to newly arrived immigrant women.
Inside the university library, Sarah and Thomas examined photographs from the settlement houses archives.
There were dozens of images, classes in session, group portraits of students and teachers, documentation of community events, and then in a photograph from 1896, Sarah saw her.
Helena Kowalsski stood in the back row of a group [music] portrait surrounded by women she was teaching.
She was 23 years old, her face more mature than in the 1888 photograph, but unmistakably the same person.
Her expression held the same quiet defiance Sarah had noticed before.
But now there was something else, too.
Pride, purpose, a hard one confidence.
Helena’s wrist, where the brand had been, was hidden beneath a long-sleeved blouse.
She made a life for herself, Thomas said softly.
Despite everything, she found a way to help others.
Sarah discovered more as she dug deeper into the settlement house records.
Helena had been instrumental in establishing a support network for women escaping exploitative labor contracts.
She spoke at labor rallies, wrote letters to newspapers, [music] and provided testimony for several more labor commission investigations throughout the 1890s.
In 1898, Helena married a carpenter named Joseph Novak.
They had three children together.
>> [music] >> Census records showed them living in a modest but respectable home in Roxbury.
Their children all attending school, not working in factories.
Anna, meanwhile, had established herself as a skilled dress maker with a small but loyal clientele.
The settlement house records mentioned her by name several times, [music] noting her contributions of handmade clothing for charity distributions.
She lived until 1912, dying at age 58, surrounded by her daughters and grandchildren.
Young Maria became a stenographer and later married a bookkeeper.
She was active in the women’s suffrage movement, [music] her name appearing on petition lists from 1910 and 1915.
Sarah assembled all of this information into a timeline, watching a fuller picture emerge.
[music] The 1888 photograph had captured a pivotal moment in three lives.
The moment before Anna and Helena chose to speak [music] truth to power, knowing the risks, accepting the cost.
But that moment hadn’t defined them.
They had gone on to build meaningful [music] lives, to contribute to their community, to ensure that the next generation wouldn’t suffer [music] as they had suffered.
“We should write this up properly,” Thomas said.
“Document their story.
Make sure it’s preserved.” Sarah agreed.
But she also felt something else was needed.
The photograph that had started this investigation, that image of a mother and two daughters in their finest clothes carrying their dignity-like armor, deserved to be seen, to be understood in its full context.
3 months later, the Boston Historical Society opened a new exhibition titled Hidden Marks: Stories of Labor and Resistance in Industrial Boston.
The centerpiece was the 1888 photograph of Anna, Helena, and Maria Kowalsski, displayed in both its original sepia version and its colorized enhancement with detailed annotations explaining what the mark on Helena’s wrist represented.
Sarah had worked with the society’s curator to create an immersive display.
Alongside the photograph were the original letter from Anna to Hawthorne studio, transcripts from the labor commission testimony, newspaper articles about the Brennan trial, and images of Helena’s later work at the settlement house.
They had even located one of the metal brands used in Boston factories borrowed from a labor history collection at UMass Amhurst.
But the exhibition went beyond the Kowalsski family.
Sarah and Thomas had spent weeks researching other families who had resisted exploitative labor practices in the 1880s and 1890s.
The walls displayed dozens of photographs, each with its own story of courage and resistance, factory workers who organized the first successful strikes, immigrants who testified despite threats of deportation, children who spoke publicly about the conditions they endured.
On opening night, the gallery was packed.
Labor historians, community activists, [music] descendants of immigrant families, students, journalists, all came to see these forgotten stories brought into the light.
Sarah stood near the Kowalsski photograph, watching people’s reactions as they leaned close to examine Helena’s wrist, reading the wall text that explained what the small circular mark meant.
An elderly woman approached Sarah, introducing herself as Katherine Novak.
Helena was my great-g grandandmother, she said, her voice thick with emotion.
I never knew about the brand, about what she went through.
[music] My grandmother never spoke of it, but she always said that Helena was the strongest woman she’d ever known.
Sarah showed Catherine the other materials they’d found.
Helena’s work at the settlement house, her marriage certificate, photographs from later years.
Catherine wept as [music] she looked at images of her great-g grandandmother she’d never seen before.
Thank you for finding this, Catherine said.
Thank you for making sure people know what they did, what they survived.
Over the following weeks, the exhibition attracted steady [music] crowds.
Local news stations covered it.
The Boston Globe ran a feature article.
Teachers brought their students to learn about labor history through personal stories rather than abstract facts.
Descendants of other families featured in the exhibition came forward with additional photographs, letters, and documents they had kept in atticss and basement, not knowing their historical value.
Sarah gave several talks at the society, explaining how the colorization technology had revealed Helena’s mark and [music] sparked the investigation.
But she always emphasized that the technology was just a tool.
What mattered was the choice to look carefully, to ask questions, to pursue the human stories behind historical artifacts.
6 months after the exhibition opened, Sarah received an unexpected package in the mail.
Inside was a small wooden box carefully wrapped in tissue paper.
A note accompanied it written in shaky handwriting.
Dear Dr.
Mitchell, my name is Thomas Novak, Catherine’s son and Helena’s great great grandson.
After seeing the exhibition, I searched through my grandmother’s belongings and found this.
I think it belongs with the other materials at the historical society.
Tom Sarah opened the box carefully.
Inside, nested in faded velvet was a small silver locket.
She opened it with trembling fingers.
On one side was a tiny photograph, Anna, Helena, and Maria.
The same image from 1888, carefully cut down and preserved.
On the other side was an inscription engraved in delicate script.
September 28th, [music] 1888.
We will not be forgotten.
Sarah sat at her desk for a long moment, holding the locket, feeling the weight of its meaning.
Anna had carried this, [music] keeping that photograph close to her heart.
She had it made after the original portrait was taken, before the testimony, before the trial.
It was a talisman, a promise to herself and her daughters that their courage would matter, that their story [music] would endure.
The locket became part of the exhibition displayed beside the larger photograph.
Its addition seemed to complete something to [music] bring the story full circle.
Visitors often lingered longest at this case, reading the inscription, understanding that these weren’t just historical figures, but real women who had loved, feared, hoped, and persevered.
[music] Sarah continued her work at the historical society.
But the Kowalsski investigation had changed her approach.
She looked at every photograph with new attention now, wondering what marks might be hidden, what stories might be waiting to be uncovered.
She trained her eye not just for aesthetic beauty or historical importance, but for the small telling details that revealed human struggle and resilience.
The colorization technology continued to improve, becoming more sophisticated in its [music] ability to reveal hidden information.
Sarah used it on dozens of other photographs from the society’s collection, finding other marks, other clues, other forgotten stories.
Each one reminded her that history wasn’t just made by the powerful and prominent.
It was made by ordinary people who chose extraordinary courage when circumstances demanded it.
Helena’s descendants became friends with Sarah, sharing family stories that hadn’t been written down anywhere.
They spoke of Helena’s insistence that all her grandchildren receive education, of her work advocating for labor protections well into her 60s, of the small acts of kindness and fierce moments of advocacy that defined her life after 1888.
On the anniversary of the exhibition’s opening, Sarah stood once again before the photograph of Anna, Helena, and Maria.
The gallery was full of people, researchers, students, [music] families, community members who had been touched by these stories.
A local high school choir performed labor songs from the 1890s.
Katherine Novak gave a brief speech about what it meant to her to know her family’s true history.
As Sarah listened, she thought about that September day in 1888 when three women climbed the stairs to Hawthorne studio, carrying themselves with dignity despite their hardship, sitting for a photograph that would become both documentation and defiance.
Anna had understood something profound, that visibility was power, that recording their truth was an act of resistance, that the future might see what the present refused to acknowledge.
The mark on Helena’s wrist, hidden for 131 years, had finally told its [music] story.
And in telling that story, it had illuminated countless others.
[music] Stories of survival, resistance, and the unbreakable human spirit that persists even in the darkest circumstances.
Sarah smiled as she watched the gathering, knowing that Anna’s promise had been kept.
[music] They would not be forgotten.
