She took one careful step inside, her shoes crunching against the boards, and felt the weight of her father’s silence pressing in around her. In the far corner, half-shadowed beneath the slant of the roof, stood a trunk. Its leather edges were worn smooth, brass studs dulled with age, but there was a strange care in how it had been kept.
Dust coated the lid, yet the corners gleamed faintly, as though his hands had polished them in secret. Beside it sat a smaller box, tied with twine that had frayed down to threads. The handwriting across the lid was unmistakably his, neat but forceful, each letter pressed down as though to make the name permanent: Ruth.