The hotel was about an hour outside the city.
It was an old but elegant building with a large garden, an outdoor swimming pool, and long, quiet hallways.
At first, everything seemed completely normal.
We sat beside the pool, had lunch, and talked about work.
Then Richard suddenly became quiet.
I noticed that he kept checking his watch.
“Are you waiting for someone?” I asked.
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“No.”
He answered too quickly.
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A few minutes later, he moved closer to me.
So close that I instinctively turned toward him.
Then, in a low voice, he said:
“After the pool, come up to my room.”
I froze.
“Why?”
Richard glanced around.
“I can’t explain it here.”
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“What is going on?”
He only repeated:
“Seven o’clock. Room 214.”
Then he walked away.
From that moment on, I couldn’t relax.
The worst thoughts started running through my head.
Why had he brought me here?
Why a hotel?
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Why couldn’t he simply tell me what he wanted?
Twice, I almost grabbed my bag and left.
But then I thought about my father.
Richard had never hurt me.
Maybe there really was something important he needed to tell me.
At 6:55 that evening, I was already standing in front of Room 214.
I raised my hand to knock, but then I noticed that the door wasn’t completely closed.
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“Uncle Richard?”
No answer.
I pushed the door open slightly.
And the moment I stepped inside, I stopped.
My heart started pounding.
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The entire bed was covered with photographs.
Dozens of them.
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Maybe more than a hundred.
And I was in almost every single one.
Me at three years old.
Me in my school uniform.
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Me at thirteen.
Me at my university graduation.
There were even photographs I had never seen before in my life.
A large picture of my mother hung on the wall.
Old letters, documents, and sealed envelopes were scattered across the table.
