She lifted the badge. “We were stationed across Europe, but our work was mostly quiet. Letters. Evidence. Sometimes the truth was more dangerous than any bomb.”

She reached into the box, pulled out a folded envelope.

“This one never reached the right hands. Vivian—she was the last one who could’ve delivered it. But she died in Prague.”

I watched her eyes glaze over, memories returning.

“She was brave. All of them were. But after the war… well, secrets got buried.”

I opened the envelope carefully. Inside, a single page with coded text. On the back, a list of names. All crossed out, except one: Eliza Vaughn.

I didn’t recognize the name. But Aunt Mae did.

“She was the journalist. The one we trusted.”

I frowned. “And this letter?”

“Proof of a betrayal,” she said simply. “A cover-up that cost hundreds of lives.”

I asked if it still mattered now, nearly 80 years later.