As I placed the last of my folders on the desk, I felt a strange sense of connection to this place. It was almost as if the room had been waiting for me, as if it had been preserved for this very purpose. And then it hit me—the older woman. This must have been her space, a place where she had worked, perhaps even lived in her final days.
I could almost see her there, hunched over the desk, writing in one of the journals I had found. The thought gave me chills, but it also filled me with a sense of purpose. I wasn’t just continuing my own work—I was continuing hers. Whatever she had started, whatever she had tried to achieve, it was now up to me to finish.
Before leaving the room, I paused by the window, looking out at the landscape beyond. The sun was setting, casting long shadows across
