On the wall opposite the desk hung the portrait of Eleanor’s grandfather.

He looked stern, his painted eyes seeming to follow us as we approached.

Eleanor walked up to the frame.

She reached behind the thick gold molding, searching for the hidden latch.

With a soft creak, the entire portrait swung outward from the wall.

Behind it was a small, black steel safe built into the plaster.

“Do you remember the numbers?” I asked.

“Thirty-two,” she said, her voice trembling. “Left to fourteen. Right to eighty-seven.”

She placed her fingers on the cold dial.

I watched her turn it, listening to the faint, precise clicks.

She stopped on the final number.

She gripped the handle and pulled down.

The mechanism released with a heavy, metallic clunk.

She pulled the door open.

Inside the safe sat several stacks of old papers, some jewelry boxes, and a thick leather-bound journal.

I reached in and pulled the journal out.

The leather was scuffed, the corners worn down to the cardboard beneath.

I flipped it open.

The pages were covered in neat, cramped handwriting.

My father’s handwriting.