With the first key tucked safely in her jacket pocket, she went after the remaining bags with the focus of someone peeling back the layers of a secret. Dust swirled, cobwebs clung to her sleeves, and broken glass from the spilled wine crunched under her boots.
Bag after bag revealed more oddities. Some things felt deliberate—a journal filled with neat entries in her father’s handwriting, most dated decades ago. Others were mundane: cracked dishes, a half-used shaving kit, moldy newspapers.