A young woman stared back, hair pinned in a 1970s bob, eyes bright as if she’d just stepped off a runway. I felt a pang I couldn’t place.
Beside it, a handwritten letter rested on a thin piece of vellum. The ink was slightly smudged, the script elegant yet hurried.
“My dearest…,” I whispered, the words swallowing my breath. “…I trust you will understand why I kept this hidden.”
A name was scrawled beneath the greeting—Eleanor Finch. I had never heard it before.
Vivian’s smile sharpened. “Curious, isn’t it?” she murmured, voice laced with amusement.
I traced the paper with trembling fingers, feeling the weight of a secret that was never meant for me.
My heart thudded against my ribs, the room suddenly colder, the children’s eyes like frost.
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