Her writing desk stood in the corner. It was too elegant for the room, polished cherry bound with gold. She told me it had been her grandmother’s, passed down through the generations, implying it would be mine. She always wore the key on a slim golden chain around her neck. The funeral director had given it to me.
In the bottom drawer I found a bundle of letters tied with pink ribbon. They were love letters written by a man as he drove across the roadless country in 1923. He signed with a skull and crossbones. It was not my grandfather.