The old wooden box sat heavy in Lena’s lap, dust clinging to the edges like cobwebs from another life. She found it tucked beneath a loose floorboard in the small safehouse Jax had ordered them to sweep after an anonymous tip — the same place where Helena once lived in hiding.
The box wasn’t locked.
But when she opened it, it felt like prying open a wound.
Inside were faded photos. A child’s sock. A broken watch. A silver locket stained with something Lena didn’t want to identify.
And folded neatly at the bottom, sealed in a plastic sleeve, was a letter.
Her heart pounded. Her fingers trembled as she peeled it open.
The ink had smudged over time, but Helena’s handwriting was unmistakable — graceful, sharp, and distant, just like the woman herself.
> If you’re reading this, it mea
