Chương 3
A place where the floor creaked slightly when someone stepped on it.
The officer eventually left after confirming that Daniel wanted to review the letter privately.
He closed the door and stood there for nearly a minute without moving.
The house was too quiet.
That had always bothered him since his mother died.
When she was alive, silence never existed in that place.
There was always something.
A radio playing softly from the kitchen.
A cabinet closing.
Her talking to herself while searching for her glasses even though they were usually on top of her head.
Now the house sounded like it was holding its breath.
Daniel carried the envelope to the kitchen table.
He did not sit immediately.
He touched the paper first.
A ridiculous thing to do.
A person touching paper as if the person who wrote it might still feel it.
His fingers stopped at the edge.
Then he opened it.
Daniel,
If you are reading this, then I am gone, and I am sorry.
Not because I left.
Everyone leaves eventually.
I am sorry because I waited too long to tell you the truth.
He stopped reading.
The word truth annoyed him.
People used that word when they wanted to make something sound important.
He folded the letter slightly and looked toward the window.
For years, he had told himself his father leaving was simple.
Some people left because they were selfish.
Some people left because they were weak.
Some people left because they never loved you enough to stay.
That was the version of the story his mother had given him.
It was the version he had carried.
He continued.
Your father did not abandon you the way you believe.
Daniel leaned back.
His first reaction was anger.
Not sadness.
Not confusion.
Anger.
Because even after death, his mother had found a way to complicate everything.
He read the sentence again.
Your father did not abandon you the way you believe.
The rest of the letter explained very little.
That bothered him more than anything.
His mother had spent years protecting a secret, and when she finally revealed it, she still left him with pieces instead of answers.
She wrote that his father had been afraid.
She wrote that there had been a decision made by both of them.
She wrote that she thought keeping Daniel away from the truth would protect him.
But she never explained what the truth was.
At the bottom of the page was an address.
A town three hours away.
And one sentence.
Ask him what happened.
Daniel read it five times.
Then he folded the letter and placed it on the table.
His first instinct was to throw it away.
That surprised him.
He had spent years wanting answers.
Now that one had appeared, he wanted to run from it.
The next morning, he went to work like nothing had happened.
That was his specialty.
His coworkers knew him as the person who never missed deadlines and never complained.
They did not know he kept his father's old watch in the top drawer of his desk even though it had stopped working years ago.
They did not know he still remembered the exact sound of the front door closing the morning his father left.
They did not know that every time someone said, "At least you know where you stand," he thought about how little he actually knew.
At lunch, his friend Marcus noticed something was wrong.
Marcus had worked beside him for seven years and had a habit of noticing things Daniel hoped people missed.
"You look like you slept in a car," Marcus said.
"I slept at home."
"That wasn't my question."
Daniel opened his sandwich and stared at it.
Marcus waited.
That was one of the reasons Daniel trusted him.
Marcus knew when silence was an answer.
Finally Daniel said, "I found a letter from my mother."
Marcus stopped eating.
"That's not usually how sentences end well."
Daniel almost smiled.
Almost.
"She wrote about my dad."
Marcus leaned back.
"Your dad?"
"Apparently he didn't leave the way I thought."
The expression on Marcus's face changed.
Not dramatically.
Just enough.
A small hesitation.
A small delay before he answered.
Daniel noticed.
"What?"
"Nothing."
"No."
Marcus sighed.
"I don't know if I should say this."
"Now you definitely should."
Marcus looked around the crowded restaurant.
People were talking.
A child was spilling juice at the next table.
A man near the window was arguing quietly on the phone.
The world continued moving while Daniel's past shifted underneath him.
"I remember my mom mentioning something years ago," Marcus said.
Daniel frowned.
"What?"
"That your father contacted someone."
"Who?"
Marcus looked uncomfortable.
"I don't know."
"You know something."
"I know your mother was upset."
"Marcus."
"I was nineteen, Daniel."
The name came out softer than usual.
"I didn't understand what was happening."
Daniel felt the old anger returning.
Everyone seemed to have pieces.
Everyone except him.
He pushed the sandwich away.
"How many people knew?"
Marcus looked down.
"I don't know."
That answer hurt more than if he had admitted everything.
Because Daniel knew what it meant.
There had been conversations.
There had been decisions.
And somehow he had been the last person included in his own life.
That evening, Daniel drove back to his mother's house.
He parked outside for almost an hour.
The house looked exactly the same.
That was the cruel part.
Nothing outside announced that everything had changed.
The porch light still flickered.
The neighbor's dog still barked at passing cars.
Someone down the street was mowing their lawn even though it was almost dark.
Normal life had continued without asking permission.
Daniel finally walked inside.
He went straight to the hallway.
The loose floorboard was still slightly lifted from the inspection.
He crouched beside it.
For the first time, he noticed something carved into the wood underneath.
Small letters.
A date.
The same year his father disappeared.
May you like
Daniel touched the carving.
Then his phone rang.
