Claire looked young in the portrait, her smile bright, her eyes full of a life that had been cut far too short.

Benjamin reached out and swung the heavy frame outward on its hinges.

A small, digital keypad safe was embedded in the stone wall behind it.

“Do you know the code?” I asked.

“It was always her birthday,” Benjamin said.

His fingers hovered over the keys, shaking as he pressed the numbers.

The safe beeped, and a heavy click echoed through the quiet room.

Benjamin pulled the steel door open.

Inside lay a single leather-bound binder and a small manila envelope.

He reached in and pulled them out, his hands trembling so hard he almost dropped the envelope.

He walked over to the large oak desk and spread the papers out under the green banker’s lamp.

I stood beside him, leaning over to read the documents.

The first page was a medical report from ten years ago, from a clinic in Boston.

“This was when Claire was diagnosed with her first autoimmune flare-up,” Benjamin whispered.

“She was so sick. We thought we would lose her then.”