It started with a drawer I hadn’t opened in months. One of the narrow ones in the back corner of my desk, the kind that collects scraps you promise to deal with later but never do. I had been looking for a spare needle, something small and practical, when my fingers brushed against the edge of a thick envelope. Not new. The paper was soft from time, creased at the corners. I knew what it was before I pulled it out.

The handwriting on the front was mine.

There were more inside the drawer. ...