The revelation about Vivian’s mother struck me like a bolt of lightning. It triggered a faint, half-forgotten memory from a conversation with my late husband.
He had once mentioned an old, locked journal, belonging to his mother — Vivian’s mother. He said it contained “family secrets,” and that he had kept it hidden.
“Mama, are you okay?” Leo asked, watching my face.
“Yes, my brave boy,” I replied, a new purpose igniting within me. “I think I know what we need to find next.”
We returned to the chaos of our few remaining belongings, now piled in a storage locker. My hands trembled as I sifted through boxes, searching for a ghost of a memory.
Finally, tucked deep within a trunk of old papers, I found it: an ornate, leather-bound journal, its metal clasp rusted shut with age. It looked exactly as my husband had described.
The cover was embossed with a faded, unfamiliar crest. My heart hammered against my ribs.
+ There are no comments
Add yours