And then I saw it again.
The desk.
It sat against the back wall, half hidden behind a stack of empty flower pots. It was small and plain, made of dark wood that had dulled with age. But it looked out of place here, too clean, too intentional.
I walked toward it carefully, as if getting too close might make it disappear.
When I reached it, I ran my hand across the surface. The wood was smooth under my fingers. Someone had taken care of this desk.
Someone had used it.
Brenda.
I crouched down and looked closer. There was a single drawer at the front fitted with a small brass lock. My heart started to race. I reached into my pocket and pulled out the key, the same key I had found in her jewelry box, the same key that had brought me here. I slid it into the lock.
It turned easily, like it had been waiting for me.
I pulled the drawer open.
Inside was a leather-bound journal.
It was old and worn. The edges frayed from years of use. Beside it was a small wooden box no bigger than my hand. I lifted the journal out carefully and set it on top of the desk. The leather felt soft and warm, like it had been held many times before.
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