“Do not chase my shadow into darker corners. Do not imagine treason or murder where there was only loyalty and loss. Remember me as a man who loved, who served, and who carried grief too quietly. That is the truth, Andrew. That is all I ask you to keep.”
The letter ended there. Andrew lowered the page slowly, tears prickling his eyes. The chest before him no longer felt ominous but intimate, a vessel of love and loyalty, not guilt. The passports were artifacts of duty, the diary of devotion, the money a quiet act of care.