By Aouda Fogg

He hadn't seen her handwriting in years, but knew it immediately. Unmistakably.

Half sliding to the floor, he somehow managed to avoid smashing the boxes of ornaments he'd just dragged out from the back of his father's attic.

The small book felt fragile in his fingers, looked dwarfed in his hands. Suddenly he could remember seeing it her hands, see her writing in it at the small desk with the leg well that made a perfect hiding place for a small boy.

What had she written? What kinds of secrets? Would it explain why?

He opened it to find out.


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