Caleb pushed open the heavy wooden door, and the soft hum of a vending machine greeted us.
He gestured to a battered leather‑bound album perched on a side table, its corners frayed from years of handling.
“I kept this for the… for when you’re ready,” he said, his voice barely a whisper, eyes darting to the hallway as if expecting someone to burst in.
I lifted the cover, and the first page was a faded photograph of a younger Grace, smiling shyly, her hand clutching a small piece of paper.
In the background, a birth certificate peeked from under the photo, the ink already darkened, the name at the top: Emily.
