Every object reminded me of a dinner party, a holiday, or a quiet afternoon with my mother.

By afternoon, the house was filling with the sound of packing tape ripping from the roll.

I moved up to her private study on the second floor.

It was a small room, paneled in dark cherry wood, with a window that looked out over the dead garden.

Her writing desk sat in the corner, its mahogany surface covered in a thin layer of dust.

This was the room where she had spent her final days, trying to undo the damage Graham had done.

I sat in her leather chair, the springs creaking in the quiet.

I opened the top drawer of the desk, finding only old pens, paperclips, and boxes of faded stationery.

I began to empty the drawers, stacking the old correspondence into a cardboard box.

The wind rattled the glass panes of the window behind me.

I reached my hand deep into the bottom drawer, feeling for any stray papers that might have slipped behind the wooden runner.