Albert nodded.
“I know.”
“How?”
He didn’t answer immediately.
Instead, he looked over my shoulder into the small living room.
“Are you alone?”
“My daughter is upstairs.”
“Then perhaps I should come back another time.”
“No.”
I stepped aside.
“Come in.”
He entered.
That evening, while Lily did her homework upstairs, Albert told me about Estelle.
She had owned a small hardware store for decades.
She had died several months earlier.
Albert had known her for years.
Not as family.
Not even as a close friend.
But as someone who had once helped him when he needed it.
After Estelle died, some of her belongings were placed in storage.
Albert had helped sort through them.
That was where he found the quilt.
And a notebook.
And several documents.
“I didn’t know who they belonged to,” he said.
“Then why did you bring them to me?”
He reached into his backpack.
He took out a small brass key.
“I found this too.”
I stared at it.
“What’s it for?”
“I don’t know.”
“You don’t know?”
He shook his head.
“But Estelle wrote something next to it.”
“What?”
He looked at me.
“Your name.”
My stomach dropped.
“Martha.”
He nodded.
“That’s why I came back.”
