Mikhail
We return to the couch and immerse ourselves in the search, reading every word written on each page as the hours slowly pass.
Maria's keen eyes catch something I've missed. The pages in the lead-up to my father's death have also been torn out. She runs her fingertips over the page and suddenly holds it up against the light as if seeing something that isn't there.
I join her side, and that's when I see it.
When she tilts the journal in just the right direction, a series of light indentations can be seen.
Ghosts of pen marks from the prior pages that have been torn out. The marks are so light that they might not have been noticed were it not for Maria's eye for detail.
"I can't read it," she says, squinting at the page. "Can you?"
"I know a way," I tell her, taking the journal
