Someone called my name from behind.
“Clover?”
I turned.
An older man stood there—perhaps in his late sixties. His face was deeply lined, his tie pulled too tight, as though someone else had tied it for him. He held his cup with both hands, like he was afraid he might drop it.
“I’m sorry…” I said cautiously. “Did you know my dad from work?”
He gave a small nod. “I’ve known him a long time, honey. My name’s Frank.”
I studied his face, but nothing felt familiar.
“I don’t think we’ve met.”
“You weren’t supposed to,” he replied, his voice low and rough.
That made me pause.
“What do you mean?”
He stepped closer, close enough for me to catch the scent of engine grease and peppermint. He glanced around the room—once, twice—before leaning in.
“If you want to know what really happened to your mom,” he whispered, “check the bottom drawer in your stepfather’s garage.”
“I… what?”
“I made him a promise,” he continued. “This was part of it.”
“Who are you?” I asked, my heart beginning to race.
“I’m sorry, kid,” he said, handing me his business card. “I wish your parents were here for you.”
And just like that, he disappeared into the crowd, as if he had never been there at all.
I stood frozen, his words echoing louder than the organ music drifting from the living room.
Check the bottom drawer.
That night, after the house finally emptied, I returned. I didn’t turn on the lights when I stepped inside. The darkness felt… softer somehow.
The garage door creaked as it opened. Inside, the air was still, heavy with the scent of oil and cedar from the cabinets Michael had built years ago. My footsteps echoed against the concrete, each one heavier than the last.
The bottom drawer was different from the others—deeper, sturdier.
It stuck at first, then slid open with a soft groan.
Inside lay a sealed envelope, my name written across it in Michael’s familiar, blocky handwriting.
Beneath it sat a manila folder filled with legal documents, letters, and a single torn page from a journal.
I sat down on the cold floor and opened the envelope.
