Baek Soha arrived at noon exactly.
She was carrying the parcel herself, held against her chest with both hands, the way you might carry something you had been waiting years to be able to carry. There was a different quality to her bearing than I had seen in previous meetings—not less composed, but more present. Like she had, overnight, moved a few inches closer to the center of her own life.
I had cleared the desk and set out two chairs, one on each side of it. We sat across from each other, the parcel between us.
"Should we open it here?" she asked.
"Yes," I said. "Together."
She unwrapped it carefully. Inside was a cloth pouch, tied with a cord, and inside that a thick bundle of papers wrapped in oiled linen to protect against moisture. The linen had done its work. The papers were intact, aged but readable, their edges slightly yellowed and their ink slightly faded, but their content perfectly clear.
We began reading.
