My breath caught.
I inserted the brass key.
It turned.
Inside was a wooden box.
Nothing else.
Caleb lifted it carefully.
My name was carved into the lid.
NORA.
We placed it on a workbench.
I opened it.
Inside were photographs.
Dozens of them.
Me at seven with missing front teeth.
Me at ten holding a science-fair ribbon.
Me at thirteen asleep on the couch.
Me and Grandpa fishing.
Me blowing out birthday candles.
Underneath them was an envelope.
FOR NORA.
I opened it.
Sweetheart,
If you found the key, then congratulations.
You have discovered that your grandfather was unnecessarily dramatic.
Caleb laughed softly.
I was crying too hard to laugh.
I continued.
There are things I should have told you years ago.
Things about your mother.
My hands froze.
My mother had died when I was six.
At least, that was what Grandpa had always told me.
I looked at Caleb.
He had stopped smiling.
I returned to the letter.
I told you your mother died because I believed that was kinder than the truth.
I felt the room spin.
“No,” I whispered.
Caleb moved beside me.
I kept reading.
Your mother, Emily, did not die.
The letter slipped from my fingers.
For several seconds, neither of us moved.
Then Caleb picked it up.
I snatched it from him.
My eyes raced across Grandpa’s handwriting.
She left.
There were reasons.
Some were hers.
Some were mine.
And some you are old enough to understand now.
I wanted to tell you myself.
I kept waiting for the right time.
That was cowardly.
If I’m gone before I manage it, forgive me.
At the bottom of the box you’ll find what you need.
My hands plunged beneath the photographs.
There was another envelope.
Inside was a photograph I’d never seen.
A young woman stood beside Grandpa.
She had dark hair.
My eyes.
My smile.
Written on the back was:
Emily Harper — 2009.
Below it was an address.
Not an old address.
A current one.
There was also a phone number.
I stared at it.
“My mother is alive.”
Caleb said nothing.
I looked again inside the box.
There was one final object.
A sealed envelope.
On the front, Grandpa had written:
DO NOT OPEN UNTIL YOU SPEAK TO EMILY.
Underneath, in smaller letters:
Nora, whatever she tells you, remember that there are two sides to what happened.
My hands went cold.
“What happened?” Caleb whispered.
“I don’t know.”
Then his phone buzzed.
He glanced at the screen.
His expression changed.
“What?”
He didn’t answer.
“Caleb.”
He slowly turned the phone toward me.
An unknown number had sent him a text.
One sentence.
DON’T LET NORA CONTACT HER MOTHER.
I stared at the message.
Another appeared.
YOU HAVE NO IDEA WHAT JACK DID.
The basement suddenly felt much colder.
“Who has your number?” I whispered.
“People from school. Work. Friends.”
“Does anyone know we’re here?”
Caleb shook his head.
Then we heard something upstairs.
A metallic crash.
We both froze.
“Did you lock the door?” I whispered.
“Yes.”
Another sound.
Footsteps.
Slow.
Deliberate.
Moving through the darkened hardware store above us.
Caleb switched off his phone flashlight.
The basement fell black.
My fingers closed around Grandpa’s final unopened envelope.
The footsteps stopped directly above us.
Then my phone rang.
The screen illuminated my face.
UNKNOWN NUMBER.
I stared at Caleb.
He shook his head.
Don’t answer.
The phone continued ringing.
Once.
Twice.
Three times.
Then it stopped.
A voicemail notification appeared.
My hands trembled as I lifted the phone to my ear.
A woman’s voice whispered through the speaker.
“Nora… my name is Emily.”
I stopped breathing.
“I’m your mother.”
A pause.
Then she said the words that changed everything.
“And if Jack is dead, you need to get out of that store right now.”
Upstairs, the basement door slowly began to open.
…If you want to know what happened next, please type “YES” and like for more.
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