On the back, in his handwriting, were four words:
Where the promise began.
Paweł stared at the photograph.
“I know that place.”
“You do?”
He nodded slowly.
“It belonged to my grandmother. She used to say that one day the family would understand why she kept it separate from the farm.”
“Did she ever explain?”
“No. I was too young to understand, and Dad never talked about it.”
He turned the photograph over again.
Then he looked at me.
“Halinka, I think this is bigger than a cottage.”
I felt a chill.
“What do you mean?”
“Grandmother had a sister. She lived near Łańcut, and people said she left something behind when she died. There were rumors about land, but nobody ever agreed on what happened.”
He rubbed his forehead.
“Dad used to visit that area alone. I thought he was going to the cemetery.”
For a long moment, neither of us spoke.
