The diary had survived three moves, a flood, and one determined attempt by her father to throw it out. It sat now on the kitchen table, spine cracked, in a script Mira couldn't read.
She had learned three languages in school. Her grandmother's was not one of them.
I.
"You could get it translated," her husband said, not looking up from his phone.
"I know."
She didn't, though — not really. Not in the sense of intending to. There was something about the diary staying closed that felt truer to what it had been while her grandmother was alive: a private thing, held, not distributed.
II.
She translated one page anyway, eventually, on a Tuesday she couldn't later explain. It was a grocery list.
She closed the diary and did not open it again for a year.