Today, she is 97 years old and has been in a wheelchair since she collapsed, but her mind is still sharp.
We see her once or twice a week, but now it seems like she’s not waiting for us. Instead, she waits for the dog.
He is not a dog that assists people. A handler can’t work without an ID vest.
Every day at 3:40 p.m., he shows up outside her door, quiet and respectable. Her hand is on his head, as if it has always been there.
The crew doesn’t know what to do. Nobody has seen him come. He doesn’t bark or eat. Sits there.
I was genuinely confused by what she said to him.
I heard her say, “Colonel, you’re late,” in a quiet voice last Tuesday. The wrong sister got the envelope.
At first, I thought it was a case of misunderstanding because she had only ever said she had one sister.
But then she looked at me and said, “I meant the sisterhood.” The other V.
There was a letter V with red stitches on it as she drew back the edge of the blanket. I always believed that was her first name.
But I went after the dog when he left today.
Down a hallway with no one in it, past the break room, to a stairway that was old and dusty. He scratched at a panel on the wall, and as I forced it out, I saw a small room with cobwebs in it. There was an old wooden box inside with the same “V” on it.
Yes, she called him Colonel. He sat next to me and watched calmly. There was no hurry, just calm hope.
Inside the box were old letters, a black-and-white image of five women in military coats, and a spherical silver badge. There was a “V” in the middle that was the same as the one in the middle, and “Veritas Unit” was around it.
My heart raced.
Truth. The truth.
My great-aunt always stated that her youth was nothing to write home about. But this box said something else.
Colonel followed me back to her room like a bodyguard. She smiled when she saw what I was carrying.
She said in a hushed voice, “I thought it was gone for good.” “I thought it died when Vivian did.”
I sat down and put the box on her lap. “What’s this, Aunt Mae?”
She gently ran her hand over the picture. “Not just me and a sister.” “Sister” meant something else.
She stared me right in the eye with stunning clarity.
“We were the Veritas Unit. Five women, one goal: to speak the truth. We didn’t bring firearms; we brought proof.
I blinked because I couldn’t believe it.
She said, “We weren’t official.” “Never on any record.” But during the conflict, the truth didn’t always reach to the proper people. What we learned saved lives.
I asked, “You were spies?”
She chuckled and remarked, “Historians who can spy.” We sent letters back and forth and found out the truth. The truth could be more dangerous than any bomb at times.
She pulled out an envelope that was folded.
“This never got to where it was heading. Vivian was the last person who could have done it. But she passed away in Prague.
The parcel had a sheet of coded writing and a list of names in it. There was only one name that wasn’t crossed out: Eliza Vaughn.
Aunt Mae said, “She was the journalist we could trust.” “And what about this?” She nodded in response to the note. “It showed a betrayal.” Something awful happened that no one knew about.
I wanted to know if it still mattered, even after all this time.
She looked out the window. “Truth is always important.”
That night, I couldn’t sleep. I began to dig.
Eliza Vaughn went missing in 1951. The report said “accidental drowning,” but the body was never found.
I followed the other names. Most of them were gone. Senator Bernard Kellin stood out. Still going strong. People know him for being fearless in battle.
But Aunt Mae’s letter made me think of something horrible.
I didn’t sure what to do, so I gave the package to Nadia, an old friend and journalist who investigates things.
She didn’t find it funny. She read everything of it. Then he remarked, “If this is real, it changes everything,” with a look of shock on his face.
We looked into it for weeks. The papers were real. People talked about a hidden group that the badge matched records of.
A German fan figured out the code, which was about phony military movement data that caused a refugee camp to be bombed. It’s the Axis’s fault. But the Allies made it happen.
A way to receive help. A tragedy that was disguised.
Nadia took a lot of attention when she wrote the article. Looked into everything to make sure it was true. Only the initials: “V Unit.” That’s not my name. Not Aunt Mae’s.
The story didn’t go viral in a stunning way; it rocked historians, academics, and finally the whole world.
A college got in touch. NPR called. There was even a part on the BBC.
Three days later, I got a call from Senator Kellin’s office.
He wanted to meet.
I flew to Vermont. He was old and sick. He didn’t say no to anything.
He said, “Your great-aunt was one of the few who didn’t take the money to keep quiet.”
I wanted to know why he did it.
“We thought we were making the world a better place. But the truth is, we were scared of looking weak.
I left without shaking his hand.
By the time I arrived home, the piece had been read all over the world. They modified the literature on history. They made a documentary. And Aunt Mae?
She got a medal. It was officially posthumous.
But she was still around.
The colonel came on time every day. I asked her where he was from once.
She grinned. “After Vivian died, he found me. He came up to me like he knew me already.
“Is that a ghost?” I said something funny.
She said, “No,” and “A promise.”
A week later, Aunt Mae passed away in her sleep. Colonel was curled up at her feet. After the funeral, he went missing. People never saw him again.
Was he a person who lived? I think about it from time to time. But I still have the box, the image of the five brave women, and the insignia.
There was a dog in the photo, but it was hard to see and off to the side. Next to Vivian.
The same eyes. Same silence.
Colonel.
Some stories don’t need to be told.
People just need to hear it.
Aunt Mae didn’t use guns to fight; she told the truth. A loyal dog reminded her when no one else did.
And I learnt this: The truth always comes back. With boxes, dogs, and the courage of those who remember.
Tell your stories. Follow the signs. And don’t ever believe that someone’s best years are behind them.
Some folks are just finding them.
