Some contained birthday cards.
Others contained letters from former colleagues.
There were invitations, thank-you notes, and photographs.
Near the back sat a thick cream-colored envelope with her name written across the front.
She recognized Aaron's handwriting.
For Mariah, when the time comes.
Her chest tightened.
She carried the envelope to his desk.
For several minutes, she simply held it.
Then she opened it.
Inside was a letter dated almost two years earlier.
Dear Mariah,
If you're reading this, then I have finally succeeded in avoiding another retirement ceremony.
She laughed through tears.
It was exactly the sort of opening he would have chosen.
I know you'll have been busy taking care of everyone else. You have always done that, sometimes to your own exhaustion. So before anything else, I want you to sit down, eat a proper meal, and understand that none of my unfinished errands are emergencies.
Mariah shook her head.
"Uncle Aaron."
She continued.
There are a few things I hope you'll remember when people start asking what should happen to my papers, photographs, and recordings.
The public records belong in the appropriate public institutions. The personal letters belong to the people who wrote them or the family members who have permission to keep them. Nobody should have private information published merely because it was sitting in my house.
Please do not turn the house into a shrine. Sell it, live in it, rent it, or fill it with noisy relatives. Houses are for living.
And don't allow the coffee shop story to swallow the rest of my life.
Mariah wiped her eyes.
The letter continued.
I have been fortunate to know good people who rarely received applause for doing difficult, necessary work. I hope the record remembers them. But I also hope the record leaves room for ordinary things: cups of coffee, children learning to read, friends repairing a fence, somebody admitting a mistake before the mistake becomes a catastrophe.
The best outcome of the work we did in Ridgemont was never the frightened expression on Gerald Thornton's face.
It was the day people began receiving fair answers without needing somebody important to intervene.
Mariah stopped reading.
Outside, a car moved slowly along the street.
Somewhere nearby, a dog barked.
She looked at her uncle's empty chair.
Then she read the final lines.
You will be tempted to take responsibility for keeping my story alive. Please don't make that your whole life. Teach your students. Enjoy your children. Travel somewhere you've never been. Laugh too loudly at dinner. Let yourself be happy.
The world has enough memorials. It needs more people who know how to live.
Love, Uncle Aaron.
Mariah folded the letter carefully.
For the first time since his death, she allowed herself to cry without trying to remain composed for anyone else.
She cried for the uncle who had helped raise her.
For the man who made terrible jokes during family dinners.
For the friend who repaired gates in the rain.
And for the person who had spent decades insisting that human dignity should not depend on the rank, fame, or usefulness of the person being judged.
When the tears finally stopped, she looked toward the wooden cabinet.
There was still a great deal of work to do.
But she remembered the first instruction in the letter.
She went into the kitchen.
Heated the soup a neighbor had left in the refrigerator.