Lucien found the second photograph tucked inside the journal's back cover, slipped between the last written page and the leather binding as though his mother had wanted it kept close to her words without wanting it seen by anyone flipping through casually. It had gone soft at the corners with age, the color faded toward sepia, but the image itself was clear enough.

His mother stood in what looked like a hotel lobby, her posture rigid in a way that didn't match any of the warm, easy photographs elsewhere in the box. Beside her stood a man Lucien didn't recognize — tall, silver-haired even in what must have been his...