She looked at me carefully for a long moment, not with pity, but with deep attentiveness.

“You have your aunt Madeline’s eyes,” she remarked gently.

I swallowed hard past the lump in my throat.

“That is what everyone used to tell me growing up.”

She escorted us into a quiet conference room down the hall.

Sitting directly in the center of the large table was a dusty gray archive box.

My aunt’s name was written clearly across the side in thick black marker: MADELINE THORNTON PRIVATE.

My breath caught in my chest at the sight of her handwriting.