The garage was on the edge of the city. Old, forgotten, lined up like relics from another time.
Number 122.
I stood in front of it, my breath shallow.
Part of me wanted to turn around and go home.
Pretend none of this existed.
But I couldn’t.
Not after everything.
I slid the key into the lock.
It turned.
The door creaked open slowly, dust drifting through the air.
And there it was.
In the center of the garage.
A massive box.
Covered in cobwebs and years of neglect.
It was taller than me.
My stomach dropped.
“Oh God… Harold…” I whispered.
“What have you done?”
My legs felt weak as I stepped closer.
Every instinct told me to stop.
But I didn’t.
I reached out… and opened it.
I braced myself for something terrible.
Something unforgivable.
But what I saw…
Was something I never expected.
It wasn’t horror.
It was a life.
Boxes filled with photographs.
Letters tied with faded ribbon.
Drawings, old toys, keepsakes.
At the very top, a tiny pink blanket.
My breath caught as I picked it up.
Underneath it was a photograph.
A baby girl.
Wrapped in that same blanket.
On the back, in Harold’s handwriting:
Emily — 1961.
