The canvas smelled faintly of gun oil and salt water.

The brass latch on my grandfather Thomas Carter’s chest was stiff from years in the damp house, but it gave way with a sharp metallic snap when I pressed the lever.

Inside, under a layer of white tissue paper, lay my Navy dress uniform, folded flat since my last day in Norfolk.

The folded service flag of Lewis Vance rested in the top wooden tray beside my ribbons, its white embroidered stars facing up in the dark.

I lifted the navy wool dress jacket by its padded shoulders and laid it across the blue quilt on the bed.