I touched the paper lightly.
“He used an old sample,” I said.
Daniel looked at the examiner. “Document this.”
The drying room smelled of damp cardboard and industrial fans. Several boxes sat open on metal tables under careful light. Some labels had blurred, but others remained legible.
Board Minutes.
Patent Transfer.
Insurance.
Employee Medical.
Private Correspondence.
My throat tightened at the last one.
The examiner worked methodically, photographing each box before anything was moved. Daniel stood beside him, asking precise questions. Priya took notes. Madison lingered near the door as if unsure whether she had the right to be there.
Then I saw it.
A small gray box tucked beneath a warped folder.
Unlike the others, it had no printed label. Just handwriting in black marker.
I.C. — PERSONAL.
My initials.
“Daniel,” I said.
He turned.
The examiner photographed the box, then lifted the lid.
Inside were envelopes, a flash drive sealed in plastic, and a stack of letters tied with a blue ribbon.
