My uncle once asked me, ‘Are you a virgin?’ when I was already 27 years old. From that moment, I started to be afraid of him. And a few days later, when he took me to a hotel outside the city, he leaned close to my ear by the pool and whispered, ‘After the pool, come up to my room…’”

My mouth went dry.

“Told me what?”

He studied me for several seconds.

Then he whispered, “Your father was right about one thing.”

I felt a chill travel down my arms.

“What thing?”

Richard looked toward the envelope.

“He said you would never believe the truth if it came from me.”

I stared at him, trying to understand what he meant.

“My father is dead.”

“I know.”

“Then why are you talking about him as though he had a conversation with you yesterday?”

Richard didn’t answer.

Instead, he walked to the desk, picked up the brown envelope, and turned it over in his hands.

For the first time since I had entered the room, he looked old.

Not physically old. Richard was only in his late fifties, still broad-shouldered and usually impeccably dressed. But something about his face had changed. The confidence I had always associated with him seemed to have disappeared, replaced by the exhaustion of someone who had spent years carrying a burden alone.