Walter peered deep into the cardboard box. His eyes had gradually adjusted to the gloom of the attic and just at the edge of his vision – his eyes hampered by dust and cataracts – he was sure that he could see the folder with his documents. Straining every last sinew of his creaking arm, he reached deep down to grasp the slightly damp, curled and faded orange wallet. As he drew his arm back from the depths of the sagging box, his browned elbow knocked loose a photograph. One glimpse of her blonde hair and suddenly the attic was too musty, too hot and too claustrophobic.