KISAREL.
"Well, well, well..." She stepped in slowly and easily, her eyes pinned to the box on the floor. "What do we have here?"
I clutched the photograph tighter, knowing that one wrong move and everything I'd been protecting for years would be gone in a few seconds.
Her interest seemed pinned to the contents of the box without her even looking my way.
She crouched in front of me, and the first thing she picked up was the knitted socks.
She held them up, turning them over in her fingers with the expression of someone handling something they found vaguely offensive. "What on earth—" She laughed. "Your parents died, and this is all you get from them. A pair of cheap, misshapen socks? That’s almost impressive."
She dangled them from two fingers like they were something she'd found on
