I lit the lantern.
Warm light spread across the cabin, revealing framed photographs along the walls.
Most were landscapes.
The lake in winter.
The lake during a storm.
The dock beneath autumn leaves.
Then I saw a picture near the fireplace.
My mother stood on the porch, smiling into the sunlight. She looked no older than twenty-five. Beside her was Carl.
He was young too, with thick dark hair and a grin I had never seen during my visits.
Between them stood Aunt Nora.
On the back, someone had written:
Evelyn, Carl, and Nora—summer of 1989. Before everything changed.
I stared at the date.
I was born the following spring.
A floorboard creaked beneath my foot.
I looked down.
One plank near the fireplace was darker than the others. Its edge bore a small crescent-shaped mark.
I found an iron tool beside the hearth and lifted the board.
Beneath it was a narrow compartment.
