She crouched and peered inside. Rough boards formed a low ceiling; bare brick pressed close on either side. The narrow bunk ran the length of one wall, opposite a strip of floor where faint scuff marks crossed the dust, as if feet had shifted restlessly there long ago and the memory of movement had lingered.
On the brick near the head of the bunk, graphite letters had been scrawled in an uneven hand. Some had blurred with age, but names could still be made out, alongside a date from the early 1940s and a short line in a language Lucy could not read. Her chest clenched at the sight.