I thought it was her monogram.

But today, when the dog left, I followed him. Down the hallway, past the nurses’ lounge, to a stairwell no one uses.

He scratched at a loose panel in the wall. I pulled it open.

Inside was a narrow, dusty compartment. Old wiring. A rusted switchboard. And… a box. Wooden, with a symbol on it. The same V. Burned into the top like a brand.

The dog—Colonel—sat beside me, simply staring. No growling, no anxiety. As if he was waiting for me to act.

I lifted the box out carefully. It wasn’t locked, simply heavy with time. Inside were old letters, a faded photograph of five women in military-style coats, and a badge—brass, round, with the same V in the middle and the words “Veritas Unit” around it.