It’s early afternoon, sunlight pouring through the tall windows of Mariska’s townhouse. You’re sitting at her kitchen table, both of you in jeans and T-shirts, half-finished glasses of wine pushed to the side. The conversation’s been easy—weekend plans, work frustrations, bits of gossip—until the doorbell rings.

Mariska frowns, wiping her hands on a dish towel as she goes to answer it. A delivery man hands her a medium-sized box. No return address, just her name in bold black ink.

She brings it to the table and sets it down between you. “Weird,” she mutters. “I wasn’t expecting anything.”

She opens it with scissors, carefully cutting through the tape. Inside, wrapped in faded tissue paper, are old journals, photographs, and letters. A whiff of perfume drifts up—powdery, unmistakably vintage.

Her face drains of color. She reaches in slowly, pulling out a small leather-bound diary with initials pressed into the corner: J.M.

“Jayne…” Her voice cracks, just slightly. She blinks rapidly, trying to keep her composure, but her hand trembles around the diary. “My father never let me… I wasn’t allowed to touch her things. Not her books, not her letters. He used to say—‘don’t look at her stuff.’ Like if I ignored her, I could move on.”