-IRIS-
I stood beside Tristan, leaning in just enough to peek over the yellowed pages. "Are you sure this is her diary?"
Tristan flipped through the pages carefully, like the whole thing might crumble to dust if he breathed too hard. The faded paper was covered in tight black handwriting, little sketches tucked between the lines.
He turned back to the first page and pointed at the name written in looping ink: "Margareth Elisabeth Knox. My grandma."
A bouquet of lilies filled the corner of the page, shaded delicately with fountain‑pen strokes. It was beautiful — soft, detailed, almost alive.
My thumb brushed over the drawing, feeling the faint indentations pressed into the thin paper. For a second, I could almost imagine the scent of lilies drifting up from the page.
"She was really t
