In the dim light, the safe door slowly swung open with a wet, frozen hiss.

A cloud of white vapor spilled over the threshold, pooling around our boots like dry ice.

“Emma, Lily, stay back,” I whispered, pulling the girls closer to my knees.

They huddled together in the corner, clutching one another’s jackets in absolute silence.

Nathan did not move for a second, his hand still resting on his taped wedding band.

Then, he reached into the frost-covered interior of the safe.

He pulled out a thick, leather-bound binder wrapped in a waterproof plastic sleeve.

Attached to the front of it was a small USB drive and a stack of printed medical charts.

His fingers trembled as he tore the plastic open.

“This is Claire’s handwriting,” he murmured, his voice cracking in the quiet room.

I stood beside him, holding my breath as he turned the first page.

The top of the sheet bore the letterhead of the clinic where Claire had received her oncology treatments.

“Look at the dates,” I said, pointing to the red ink margins.