Nathan Mercer died in an assisted living facility in Duluth at the age of eighty-four.

He was Caroline Mercer’s second cousin—the one who had provided the old childhood photo albums when Sophie was fourteen. He had never asked for settlement money, had never attended court hearings, and had sent a birthday card with five dollars inside every December until his arthritis prevented him from writing.

His executor was a local probate attorney named Vance Miller. He called Sophie’s home in early spring.

"Mrs. Park?" Miller asked. "Mr. Mercer left three cardboard cartons marked Caroline’s Personal Effects—Storage Unit Cleared 2014. Under his will, any remaining familial memorabilia of Caroline Anne Mercer was bequeathed to her daughter. If you don't want them, the estate will authorize disposal."

"Do not dispose of them," Sophie said.

Two weeks later, a freight truck dropped three taped boxes on our porch.

Sophie, Lily, and I sat in our living room with a box cutter. Emily was in the sunroom, dozing with an afghan over her knees.

The boxes smelled of cedar chips and dry paper. The first box contained winter coats that had belonged to Caroline Mercer: a red wool trench coat, two cable-knit scarves, and a pair of leather gloves with the fingers worn down. Sophie touched the fabric, brought a scarf to her nose, and shook her head.

"Nothing," she murmured. "It just smells like cardboard."

"You were five when she died, Soph," Lily said gently from the floor. "Olfactory memory doesn't last thirty years through cedar chips."

The second box contained old tax returns, a receipt for a timing belt replacement on a 2004 Honda Civic, and three framed water-color prints of maritime lighthouses.

The third box contained a shoe box wrapped in packing tape. Written across the lid in black felt-tip marker was: Voice Notes & Dictation—Harbor Ridge Years (Pre-Conception).

Inside were twelve microcassette tapes, the kind used in handheld micro-recorders during the late 1990s and early 2000s.

Sophie’s hands began to shake. "She kept audio journals."

"We knew she was a patient coordinator there before she became a patient," I said. "Her lawyer, Maya Trent, mentioned she recorded draft memos for staff meetings."

"These aren't staff memos," Sophie said. She pointed to the handwritten paper labels on the cassettes:

Cycle 1 Notes—Dr. Vale.

Embryo Bank Disposition Questions.

Thoughts on Being Alone (May 2007).

Lily immediately stood up. "I’ll go to the electronics store. Someone still sells tape players."

"Wait," Sophie said.

Lily stopped.

"Do we want to hear this?" Sophie looked at me, her eyes wide with a sudden, sharp dread. "What if she talks about the clinic in a way that proves she knew something she shouldn't have?"

"Caroline Mercer was investigated by the state medical board, the district attorney, and our own independent investigators," I told her. "Her records were subpoenaed. If there had been a shred of evidence that she knowingly solicited an unconsented embryo, Asteron’s insurance lawyers would have used it to crush her estate’s claim thirty years ago. She was innocent, Sophie."

"That’s not what I’m afraid of," Sophie whispered.

"Then what are you afraid of?"

"I’m afraid I won't recognize her voice."

Lily walked back over and sat beside her sister on the carpet. She reached out and took Sophie’s hand, the same way she had taken it in the emergency room waiting area when they were children.

"Then we listen together," Lily said. "And if she sounds like a stranger, she’s still the woman who bought you soup and yellow daisies."

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