I followed her into the small office, the floorboards creaking beneath our feet.
The room was cramped but organized, a wooden desk covered in papers, shelves lined with ledgers and donation records, a single window letting in pale morning light.
The woman gestured for me to sit in the chair across from her desk, then settled into her own seat with the practiced ease of someone who'd spent decades in this exact spot.
She reached for one of the ledgers on the shelf behind her, pulling down a leather-bound book that looked older than the others. Worn edges, faded spine, pages yellowed with age.
My eyes caught on the cover as she set it on the desk.
Gold lettering, still legible despite the years.
I blinked.
"Excuse me?"
The woman looked up from where she'd begun skimming through the pages, her finger tracing down columns of neat handwriting. "Yes?"
I leaned forward slightly, my voice uncertain. "Why is my mother's name written on the book cover?"
