I never expected a locked box in the attic to reopen wounds I thought had long healed.
“Dylan, come look at this,” I called as I brushed dust from an old wooden chest tucked behind a pile of forgotten suitcases. “I’ve never seen this before. It has your mother’s initials on it.”
Dylan climbed the attic stairs and knelt beside me. “That can’t be right. I cleared this place out years ago. Let me see.”
He turned the small brass key still sitting in the lock. The lid creaked open. Inside lay a stack of yellowed letters, medical files, and a thin leather journal.
Hope’s voice floated up from the hallway. “Mom? Dad? Everything okay up there?”
“We’re fine,” I answered, though my hands already trembled. “We’ll be down soon.”
Dylan picked up the first letter and scanned it. His face went pale
