I wanted to ask a hundred questions, but she looked so tired that I simply nodded.
“I promise.”
She squeezed my hand.
“Please listen to whatever he tells you.”
“Don’t open it.”
Emma died the next morning.
For nearly a week, I couldn’t bring myself to touch the box.
Then I borrowed my neighbor Robin’s car and drove to the address.
***
An elderly man opened the door, and I told him my daughter’s name.
His face changed instantly.
I told him my daughter’s name.
I handed him the box.
His hands trembled as he opened it.
The second he saw what was inside, all the color drained from his face.
Then he whispered those strange words.
And minutes later, he asked about a bicycle from my childhood.
His hands trembled.
“How do you know about my bike?” I demanded.
Arthur gestured for me to enter before lowering himself into an armchair.
