Dozens of them—some wrapped in red string, others worn at the edges from too many rereads. A small brooch. A pair of earrings. A map sketched with ancient roads now long erased.

Her fingers brushed over the first letter on top. The handwriting was elegant, unmistakable.

Wrenlow’s eyes welled, but no tears fell. She smiled. A small, aching thing.

“…You stubborn, reckless girl,” she whispered into the stillness.

She closed the box gently. Refastened the seal. Replaced the ...