He knelt with effort and reached beneath the cabinet, pressing a hidden latch.
A panel loosened.
Clara let out a soft gasp.
Inside was a metal box.
Thomas lifted it carefully and carried it to a wooden table. His hands trembled as he opened the lid.
Notebooks lay inside, wrapped in cloth.
My mother’s handwriting covered the labels.
Patient comfort study.
Port design ideas.
Iris science notes.
Do not discard.
I touched the top notebook like it was something sacred.
Clara leaned against me, crying silently.
Daniel’s voice was gentle but firm. “These could change the ownership history.”
“I don’t care about ownership right now,” I whispered.
And I didn’t.
For the first time in years, the story was not only about what Jason took.
It was about what my mother left.
I opened one notebook.
On the first page, written in blue ink, were words addressed to me.
