The journal was in a shoebox under the bed.
Ray Kowalski found it while cleaning out his grandfather's apartment after the funeral. The apartment had been Stanislaw's for forty years — a small two-room place in the Hill District above a laundromat that smelled of detergent and damp concrete. Stanislaw had died at ninety-one, alone, with a collection of beer bottles in the garage and a life that was, by most measures, unremarkable. The...
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