Picking mushrooms to survive on my small Social Security check, I fell into an underground hideout… What I saw inside made my hair stand on end…

Robert wrote that Arthur, apparently fearing consequences, came to him. He didn’t return the apartment, no. He set conditions.

He said a case was opened against me for theft at the mill. The letters danced before my eyes. Said that if I don’t disappear, I’ll be imprisoned for many years.

He threatened Elizabeth and little John. Said that if I stay, he’ll make their life unbearable. But if I leave and never return, he’ll leave them alone and in a few years transfer the apartment to Elizabeth, as if she received it from the state as the widow of a missing person.

He gave me his word. It was a monstrous choice. Either prison and shame for the family, or disappearance, which would allow them to live peacefully and get back their home.

And Robert chose the latter. He chose his family, sacrificed himself. In the last entries, he described how he secretly prepared this hideout in the forest, how he brought here his most valuable things—this diary, the only proof of his innocence, photos of his beloved family, and that wooden bird, the first toy he carved for his son.

«I don’t know if I’ll ever return,» he wrote on the last page. «Maybe years will pass, and everything will change. But if someone finds these records, know this.

I, Robert Thompson, am an honest man. I loved my wife and son more than life. And Arthur is a thief and a scoundrel.

Let God be his judge.» There the entries ended. I sat in the deafening silence of the empty apartment.

The world had turned upside down. My husband, John, lived his whole life in the house stolen from his father, and perhaps didn’t even suspect it. And his mother, Elizabeth, did she know? Most likely, yes.

And she lived with this terrible secret until the end of her days, fearing to harm her son. And me? I was now the sole keeper of this truth. I understood why I clung so desperately to this apartment.

It wasn’t just a whim. It was subconscious. The family memory wouldn’t let me make a mistake.

Selling this home would mean betraying Robert’s memory. Trampling his sacrifice. And I knew what I had to do.

I had to restore justice. But how? Arthur. Where is he now? Is he even alive? And how to find him after so many decades? There were more questions than answers.

But one thing I knew for sure. I was no longer just a lonely retiree picking mushrooms. I had a purpose.

The next few days I lived as if in a fog. Robert’s diary lay in the kitchen table drawer. I kept taking it out, rereading certain lines, peering at the faces in the photos.

The truth I learned was heavy, but it also gave me strength. I no longer felt lonely and helpless. Behind me now stood not just the memory of my husband, but a whole history.

A history of injustice and self-sacrifice. And it was my duty to see it through to the end. First, I needed to find Arthur.

But how? In the diary, Robert never mentioned his last name. Just Arthur, friend, traitor. The only clue was the mill where they both worked.

The River Steel Works, as I remembered from my mother-in-law’s stories. It was still operating, though barely, like many plants from those times. I decided to start there.

Gathering my courage, I went to the other end of the city, where behind a gray concrete fence, old mill buildings were visible. The entrance looked dreary. The guard, a bored man in a worn uniform, long refused to let me in, muttering that HR doesn’t give personal info.

I almost despaired, but then an idea came to me. I said I was seeking information about my grandfather, Robert Thompson, who worked here many years ago and went missing, and I needed it for the family archive. Something in my voice probably trembled, because the guard softened, called someone, and waving his hand, let me through, pointing to a shabby administrative building.

In HR, now called «Human Resources,» it smelled of old paper and mothballs. Behind the desk sat a woman about my age, with tired but kind eyes. Her name was Linda.

I repeated my legend about the grandfather to her. She shook her head sympathetically and said that archives from those years are in the basement and finding something there is a stroke of luck. «But I’ll try,» she said.

«I’m curious myself. I’ve worked here since I was young. Maybe I remember something.»

She asked me to wait and disappeared behind a door. I was left alone in the silence, broken only by the ticking of the wall clock. I looked out the window at the mill yard and thought about how many secrets these old walls held.

While I waited, my cell phone rang. It was Michael. «Mom, where are you? Sarah and I wanted to drop by with some groceries,» he said.

I understood the groceries were just a pretext for another talk about the apartment. «I’m not home, son, out on business,» I replied as calmly as possible. «What business?» Sarah jumped in right away; I heard her voice in the background.

«Picking mushrooms again? Mom, it’s not your age to wander the woods. Once we sell the apartment, we’ll buy you a cozy one and you can rest, not risk your health.» Her words stung painfully.

Before, I’d have stayed silent, but not now. «Sarah, my business is my business. I’ll decide when to rest and where to live,» I replied coldly and, wishing them a good day, hung up.

I felt a wall growing inside me, separating me from their petty concerns. Linda returned an hour later, all dusty but triumphant. She carried a thick cardboard folder.

«Found it,» she said, blowing dust off the folder. «Here’s your grandfather’s personnel file, Robert Thompson. Just as you said, top worker, excellent employee…