The Record Keeper (Murphy Shepherd, #3)

by Charles Martin

I, as much as anyone, knew that hope is what feeds us. It’s the currency of mankind. The fuel of the soul. Without it, we wither and die.

We didn’t know who we were, and more importantly, we didn’t know whose we were—forever proving that identity precedes purpose. You can’t know who you are until you’ve settled whose you are.

Sometimes, given their depth, we become little more than the sum of our wounds, and it takes someone else to see what we can be instead of what we are.