I took the early morning bus from Phoenix to Atlanta. All I knew was that Hannah worked at a specialized center for historical document preservation, though I knew almost nothing about her actual job because for years I had claimed she earned a living fixing old books.
When I arrived in the city, I took a taxi to the address. Upon hearing the destination, the driver looked at me through the rearview mirror with surprise.
“Are you visiting someone who works inside that center?” the driver asked curiosity.
“I am going to see my daughter,” I replied plainly.
“She must be incredibly talented because not just anyone can land a job there, as they restore priceless archives, rare manuscripts, and ancient historical papers worth more than a mansion,” the driver explained.
I remained silent for the rest of the ride. The facility was hidden behind large oak trees far away from the noisy main streets. At the front desk, I asked the receptionist if I could speak to Hannah Miller.
A man in his late fifties came out to greet me warmly. “Are you Mr. George Miller?” he asked with a gentle smile.
His question caught me completely off guard. “Yes, I am,” I answered hesitantly.
“I am Dr. Robert Hayes, the head director of this department, and Hannah has spoken about you many times,” he said.
That confused me even more than before. “She talked about me?” I asked in disbelief.
“She told us that you were one of the finest woodworkers and carpenters in your city,” he explained with a warm look.
I felt a heavy knot form in my throat. He led me into his office and began sharing details that felt as if he were talking about a complete stranger. Hannah was not a simple employee, but rather one of the leading specialists in the entire organization. She had developed innovative techniques to stabilize severely damaged paper, and she led delicate projects to recover centuries-old manuscripts that experts from other countries thought were completely lost.
“She is currently working on an extraordinary piece of history,” Dr. Hayes explained as we walked down a hallway. “We cannot enter the sterile lab room itself, but you can watch her work from the observation gallery above.”
I walked up the stairs by myself. On the other side of a glass panel, I spotted my daughter standing at a long workstation. She wore a white lab coat, a protective face mask, and surgical gloves. In front of her lay an ancient document covered in deep cracks, dark stains, and missing pieces. Three senior specialists stood around her, watching every single movement she made.
