Chapter 7 — The Photograph

My hands were trembling as I picked up the silver letter opener that Harrison had always kept beside his brass reading lamp, and sliced through the thick paper.

Inside were two items.

A handwritten letter, on heavy parchment, in Harrison’s sharp, slanted cursive that I knew as well as my own.

And a yellowed photograph, old, its colors faded, from what I would learn was forty-five years ago.

I picked up the photograph first.