She found the diary three days later, and this time she wasn't looking for anything at all.
She'd gone back to her grandmother's flat on Saturday — a quiet visit, no agenda, just the two of them and tea and a careful avoidance of the subject that had sat between them since the kitchen confession. Dorothy had asked her to help sort through a cupboard of old things she'd been meaning to clear out for years, boxes that had sat untouched long enough to collect their own particular dust, and Mara had said yes gladly, glad for something to do with her hands that wasn't typing or pretending or carefully managing her own face at dinner.
It was in a shoebox at the back of the cupboard, beneath a stack of old photo albums, half-buried under a folded christening gown that had once been Mara's. A sm
