The annex was where the Polaroid had shown it: a narrow wooden chest tucked beneath a false floor in a storage alcove. The key fit with a soft, rightness that made Annette’s breath catch. Inside, wrapped in oilcloth stained purple with something old, lay a leather-bound ledger whose edges had been singed as if to prevent easy reading. Each page listed titles, dates, and names. On margins, blacked-out bars obscured sentences in patterns that suggested not only omission but intention. Someone had gone through with a pen, deciding who could remain in the public memory and who could be excised.

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The video ended with a static hiss and the screen went black. Annette sat very still, the office clock louder than it had been all day. She felt the gravity of a choice settling in like a presence behind her shoulders. Someone had chosen her to find this. Someone—or something—had decided she should carry what had been unburied.

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