He hadn’t.
I believed him immediately.
Once he left the room, I picked up a pair of scissors and carefully cut along the seam, my hands unsteady as I reached inside.
What I found was a small metal box.
For a long moment, I just sat there holding it, unsure if I was ready to know what was inside.
Eventually, I carried it to my bedroom, closed the door, and opened it.
Inside were documents, two unfamiliar keys, and a letter addressed to me in Daniel’s handwriting.
The sight of it alone made my chest tighten.
In the letter, Daniel told me there was something he had never been able to say while he was alive.
He didn’t explain everything directly.
Instead, he wrote that he had made a mistake years ago, one he could not fix on his own, and that the keys inside the box would lead me to the truth. He asked me not to hate him until I understood everything.
That was all.
No explanation.
No details.
Just a path.
Part of me wanted to stop there.
To close the box, put everything away, and pretend I had never found it.
But I knew I wouldn’t be able to live with that.
So I followed the instructions.
The smaller key led me to the attic, to a cedar chest I had not opened in years.
Inside were letters, receipts, and something wrapped carefully in tissue.
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