It showed a young man in a dark wool coat, standing on the steps of a brick municipal building, the kind where people get married by a clerk, or register a birth.

He was holding the hand of a young woman with dark hair and a wide, nervous smile.

And beside them stood a little girl, no more than three years old, in a bright yellow raincoat.

The young man was, unmistakably, Harrison.

Younger, his hair thick and dark, but with the exact same soulful, heavy-lidded eyes that had looked at me across a chessboard for two years.

The woman beside him was not his late wife, Eleanor; I had seen Eleanor’s face in dozens of framed portraits throughout the suite, and this was a different woman entirely, a woman I did not recognize, and yet whose nervous smile stirred something in me I could not name.