My hands shook so violently I could barely untie the gold ribbon wrapped around the box. The entire grand dining room seemed to hold its breath as two hundred fellow passengers watched me lift the thick red lid.
Inside lay a heavy leather-bound journal, an antique brass compass, and a sealed white envelope with my name written across the front in Frank’s familiar, tilted cursive.
Beside the envelope sat a single blue ceramic cookie—the lid from our old savings tin that had sat on our kitchen counter for over three decades.
“He came to my office four months before he passed away,” Captain Mercer’s voice resonated over the room’s speakers as he walked toward my table. “He couldn’t walk long distances by then, but he insisted on arranging this moment himself.”
Tears streamed down my cheeks as I broke the wax seal on the envelope, my heart hammering against my ribs.
What had Frank written in his final message? Continue reading Part 3 below to discover the secret he kept.
