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…

And the last entry—dismissed for failure to appear. Missing.» She opened the folder.

I saw official papers, hiring orders, commendations. Then Linda pulled out an old group photo of the shop. «Look,» she pointed to one of the rows.

«There’s your grandfather. And next to him… Wait a minute…» She squinted. «Arthur.

What’s his… Black. Yes, Arthur Black. They were friends, inseparable.

Then this Black got promoted quickly, and soon quit. They said he bought an apartment, got rich.» Everything inside me went cold.

Arthur Black. Now I had his name. Do you know where he might live? Maybe some address left? — I asked, trying to keep my voice steady.

Linda dove into the papers again. «The personnel file has an old registration address, but that’s 40 years ago,» she said. Unlikely he’s there.

But you know what? I remember he bragged about moving to the new district across the river. Back then, they were just starting to build there. Said River Street.

That was another lead. I warmly thanked Linda, almost kissing her. She waved it off, saying she was glad to help.

Leaving the mill, I felt as if wings had grown on me. Now I knew where to go. That evening, Michael and Sarah came anyway.

They looked belligerent. Sarah started the offensive right from the door. — Mom, we want to talk seriously.

We can’t live like this anymore. The mortgage is choking us. And you’re sitting alone in this palace, clinging to the past.

It’s selfishness! — she blurted out. — Sarah, stop! — Michael tried to halt her. But it was too late.

— Stop what? I’m telling the truth. We’re your only son. Your family.

You should think about us. About future grandchildren. And you think only about your memories.

Her words were like slaps. But I looked at her and saw not an evil woman, but just a tired and confused one. She didn’t know the whole truth.

— Sit down, — I said quietly. — I won’t sell this apartment. Not because I’m selfish, but because I have no right to.

— What do you mean no right? — Sarah snorted. — It’s yours by law. — There are higher laws, Sarah.

Laws of conscience. I looked at Michael. — Son, this apartment is all that’s left from your grandfather.

From a man you didn’t even know. He gave everything so his family would have this home. And I won’t betray his memory.

They looked at me like I was crazy. Michael wanted to say something, but Sarah pulled his sleeve. — It’s clear with you.

— she threw. Stubborn and pointless to talk. — Come on, Michael.

Let her sit here alone with her memory. They left, slamming the door. And I stood in the middle of the room, and for the first time in a long while, I didn’t feel lonely.

I felt right. The next day early in the morning, I went to that district across the river. River Street turned out quiet and green, built mostly with old five-story buildings.

I went from house to house, asking old ladies on benches if they knew Arthur Black. Luck was with me. In the third courtyard, one chatty retiree remembered him.

Oh yes, I remember Arthur. He lived in the fifth building, apartment 32. But he moved out long ago, about ten years back, after his wife died.

Sold the apartment and went somewhere. They said his daughter Lisa took him to her place, in the suburbs. She even recalled the suburb’s name—Pineville.

An old commuter bus went to Pineville. The whole way, I looked out the window at the flashing landscapes and thought about what I’d say to him when we met. Would I shout, accuse, or just show the diary? I didn’t know.

I wasn’t going for revenge; I was going for justice. The suburb was small, with neat houses and well-kept gardens. Finding the right house by the name Black wasn’t hard.

I approached a low wooden fence. The house was solid, but not luxurious. Geraniums bloomed in the yard.

I took a deep breath and pressed the doorbell. A young woman about 35 opened the door, with a tired face and kind eyes. She was somehow subtly like that young Arthur from the photo.

«Who are you here for?» she asked. «I need Arthur Black,» I replied. The woman grew wary. «I’m his daughter, Lisa.»

«And who are you?» «It’s very personal,» I said. «It concerns his past, his friend, Robert Thompson.» At the mention of Robert’s name, Lisa’s face changed. She paled and gripped the door handle tighter.

«Dad is ill,» she said quietly. He hardly talks to anyone. And that name… He asked never to mention it…