He unlocked a narrow room behind the lobby. It smelled of cedar and old paper. An elderly Hawaiian woman sat beside the wall.
She saw me and began to cry.
“You look so much like Henry,” she said through her tears.
Only then did I notice what was behind her.
My breath caught in my throat.
“Grandpa, what have you done? How are we supposed to live with this now?” I whispered.
Covering almost the entire wall were photographs.
Old photographs.
Dozens of them.
Some had curled corners.
Some were yellow with age.
Others had been carefully placed behind glass.
At the center was one photograph larger than the rest.
A group of young American servicemen stood outside the same hotel where Grandpa and I had been staying.
The building looked different.
Smaller.
The roof darker.
Palm trees shorter.
But it was unmistakably the same place.
And standing in the back row was my grandfather.
