Beneath the velvet lining, Lucy discovered a folded sheet of yellowed paper and a small brass key taped against the wood. She carefully unfolded the letter and began reading aloud. “To whoever finds this, I hid it here for the one who would treat this box with love.” Carla stepped closer as Lucy continued. Then her voice suddenly trembled. “Margaret, if you are reading this, then I never got the chance to tell you in person.”

My breath disappeared. Margaret was my name, and the handwriting belonged unmistakably to my late husband, Walter. Lucy looked from the letter to me while everyone else in the room went silent. “Grandma,” she whispered, holding up the little brass key, “what does this open?” I could not answer immediately. I had spent fifteen months wondering what secrets Walter might have taken with him. Then Carla suddenly reached forward, snatched the key from Lucy’s hand—and I rose from my chair.

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