After the funeral, I returned to her house alone. I took a week off work, leaving my husband and children at home, knowing it would take several days to go through everything.
For three days, I worked through bedrooms and closets. Every object carried a memory, reminding me how small our world had been.
Finally, I climbed up to the attic. The ladder creaked, dust rose, and the light bulb flickered before settling. That’s where I found the family photo albums stacked in a cardboard box. Family
I carried them downstairs and sat on the floor, opening one after another. Page after page of my childhood stared back at me—birthday parties, school photos, summer days I barely remembered but still felt.
Grief caught me off guard, wrapped in nostalgia.
Then came the photograph.
For illustrative purposes only
The Mystery of Lily
The photo wasn’t attached to any album. It seemed hidden, tucked away at the back.
