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it:

“Helen.”

My heart stopped.

—”That’s for you,” Claire said.

I took it carefully.

The handwriting wasn’t Mr. Arthur’s.

It was Mary’s.

It couldn’t be.

Mary had died seven years before I moved into the building.

I sat down because my legs wouldn’t hold me up.

I opened the envelope.

Inside was a recipe and a note.

“For whoever finds this box when Arthur no longer continue reading …