The case was labeled in handwriting remarkably familiar—steady, deliberate, and looping letters Evan knew, though he couldn’t place it immediately. Calder stayed behind him, silent, tense. Evan ran his fingers over the script, recognizing a curve, a slant, a pressure he hadn’t seen since he was a child. The familiarity unsettled him deeply.
“Open it,” Calder said sharply. Evan hesitated. Something was wrong. This storage space seemed untouched in years, belonging to someone meticulous, careful, and someone he once knew. Evan knelt and lifted the lid. Papers, notebooks, and envelopes lay inside, arranged with careful intent.