She removed a small envelope.
It was old, yellowed at the edges, and addressed in my father’s handwriting.
I stared at it.
“Where did you get that?”
“Richard found it inside the desk your father made for Mark. It had been tucked into a hidden compartment beneath the writing surface. We only discovered it when the desk was finally recovered from storage.”
My mouth went dry.
“You’ve had that all this time?”
“Three days.”
“Why didn’t you tell me?”
“Because I wanted to read it first. And because I was afraid of what it might mean.”
She handed me the envelope.
My name was written across the front.
Not Ethan Walker.
Just Ethan.
My father’s handwriting.
I sat down slowly.
Diane knelt beside my chair.
“Read it,” she whispered.
I opened the envelope with trembling fingers.
Inside was a single sheet of paper.
The letter was short.
My son,
If you are reading this, it means the desk has finally found its way home.
