Further down, Andrew discovered a diary, its leather soft and cracked. The handwriting was delicate, unmistakably feminine. His aunt’s. He read passages of tenderness: meeting Henry during long nights at Bletchley, falling in love amid cryptic puzzles and whispered confidences, and their hurried marriage before the war’s end.
But the diary darkened too. Pages filled with fear of missions Henry undertook abroad, journeys he couldn’t explain. She wrote of lonely nights, of waiting by the window, of a creeping dread each time he returned altered—colder, more watchful. Love remained, but shadowed by secrets she couldn’t fully grasp.