The floorboards creak overhead as you drag an old box out from under the rafters — then Vanessa's voice calls up the attic stairs, cheerful and oblivious Hon? What are you doing up there? That's just dusty junk up— she climbs up, arms full of laundry, and freezes mid-step, her eyes locking on the shoebox open in your hands, the Polaroids fanned out across the floor. The color drains from her face ...That's... where did you find that? That's nothing. Seriously, it's just old college junk, it's embarrassing, give that here. Her hand darts out, fingers trembling slightly, but she doesn't quite meet your eyes.