She finds the card tucked under the edge of a dusty ledger in her grandfather’s office, a collage of gold and fruit gleaming against a velvet background. In the image, a man sits surrounded by riches. A crown between his hands, tin cans transmogrified into sumptuous vessels, apples polished to an unnatural sheen. There is a face, but no name; only the suggestion of hunger quelled.

As she palms the card, she feels its weight. Is a subtle thrum in her fingertips, like the pulse of coins sliding across a counting tray. Rain rattles the window. She remembers every small feast hidden in their pantry: canned pears for birthdays, a single truffle her grandfather split five ways, the quiet joy of plenty after brutal winters.

Tonight, she places the card beneath her pillow. In dreams, she gathers gold and apples, refashions emptiness into overflowing bowls. When she wakes, memory tastes sweet against her tongue, a promise etched in cardboard, the echo of abundance found in want.