Chapter 101: The box, when it finally arrived at the house on Larkspur Lane three weeks later, turned out to be considerably older and more weathered than either Eleanor's trunk or Robert's own careful collection of letters — a battered wooden crate, its corners worn soft with decades of handling, smelling faintly of cedar and old paper the moment Jake pried open its lid."Daniel says it belonged to his own mother," Grace explained, setting a stack of yellowed photographs carefully on the kitchen table. "He never went through it properly himself, he said. Too painful, apparently, given everything. But he wanted us to have it, now that he's got family again to actually share it with."Inside, wrapped carefully in what appeared to be an old, faded quilt, they found a modest collection of photographs, a stack of letters bound with disintegrating ribbon, and, at the very bottom, a small leather diary considerably more weathered than Eleanor's own careful journal had been, its pages britt
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