He had a small yellow flashlight in his hand.

“The fire didn’t reach the desk,” he said as I approached. “But we should check the drawer.”

“The bottom one?” I asked.

“Yes,” Thomas said. “The one your mother kept locked.”

I walked into the library.

The smell of chemical powder was strong, coating my throat.

The floor was covered in gray water and white soot.

The corner of the Persian rug was melted into a black crust.

I walked over to the mahogany desk.

The wood was cool to the touch, but a layer of fine gray ash lay across the top.

I pulled the brass key from my pocket.

It was the key my mother had given me on her last night in the hospital.

I inserted it into the small lock on the bottom right drawer.

The lock turned with a heavy, satisfying click.

I pulled the drawer open.

Inside, beneath a stack of old property deeds, lay a small leather-bound journal.

I picked it up.

The leather was dry and cracked at the edges.