The lawyer slides a worn brass key and a deed across the table. Mara stares. Her father owned a storefront she'd never heard of. Inside, the air is dry and still. Two filing cabinets, both locked. The first opens with the key: forty years of plain, honest invoices. The second won't budge. She bends a hairpin and works the lock until it clicks. One thing sits inside — a single black book. She opens it. Page after page of names, none of them her father's.

Mara reads closer. Each name has a date, a fee, and a note: "new birth certificate," "clean passport," "fresh start." Her father didn't sell hardware. He sold people brand-new identities. She flips to the last entry. The date is two weeks before he died, and the name written there is her own.

Mara searches the entry beside her name. A phone number is scribbled in the margin. Hands shaking, she dials it. A woman answers on the first ring. "You found his book," the woman says calmly. "Good. Now listen carefully, because the people who paid him are still looking. And they don't know he's dead yet."

The woman tells Mara to meet her at the old train station at midnight, alone. Mara goes. Under the flickering lights, a gray-haired woman steps forward holding an identical black book. "Your father kept two," she says. "One for the names he saved. One for the names he sold to the wrong people. You're holding the wrong one."