Upstairs, Brent’s old room was empty except for a broken shelf. My old room had been used for storage. My posters were gone, but on the inside of the closet door, faint beneath a coat of paint, I could still see where I had written my name in pencil when I was twelve.
Julia.
Small letters.
Proof I had been there.
Evelyn found me staring at it.
“Do you want a minute?”
“No.”
I took a photo.
Not because I wanted the room.
Because I wanted the girl who wrote her name to know somebody came back for her.
In the attic, we found the final surprise.
A cedar chest pushed behind boxes of Christmas decorations.
Maya checked the inventory list.
“This wasn’t disclosed.”
Evelyn’s face tightened.
“That was Rose’s.”
The chest was locked.
The locksmith opened it in under two minutes.
Inside were dozens of envelopes tied with blue ribbon.
