records the way some people loved music.
Old maps.
Survey notes.
Mining claims.
Land transfers.
Birth certificates.
Death certificates.
She believed paper could tell the truth when people forgot how.
And seven years ago, two weeks before she died, she had taken Lily up the north face trail and shown her a broken fir shaped like a crooked finger.
“If anything ever happens,” her mother had said, “you come here.”
Lily had been fourteen, annoyed, cold, and more interested in whether her friend Megan had texted back.
“Why would something
