She bought it for five dollars.
In the meantime, here’s a very short story in the spirit of flash fiction (micro fiction), the kind that might appear in a small literary magazine:
Her daughter woke up crying, saying a strange woman had been whispering in her dream: Tell her I'm still here.
But as Elena watched, an image bloomed slowly — not her daughter, but a girl with different eyes, different hair, wearing clothes from another century. The girl was waving, smiling, as if she'd been waiting a long time for someone to finally look.
