A year.

I learned my father was gone standing on his porch like a stranger.

I don’t remember leaving. Only walking. Until my legs burned. Until the sentence stopped echoing.

Eventually, I reached the only place that made sense.

The cemetery.

Tall pines loomed like guards. The iron gate creaked open.

I didn’t have flowers. I just needed proof.

Before I reached the office, a voice stopped me.

“Looking for someone?”

An older man leaned on a rake near the shed. Alert eyes. Wary.

“My father,” I said. “Thomas Vance.”

He studied me. Then shook his head.

“Don’t look.”

My stomach dropped.

“He’s not here.”

He introduced himself as Harold, the groundskeeper. Said he knew my father.

Then he handed me a worn envelope.

“He told me to give you this. If you ever came.”

Inside was a letter. A card. And a key.

UNIT 108 — WESTRIDGE STORAGE

The letter was dated three months before my release.

My father had known.

At the storage unit, I opened a world he had hidden—documents, records, proof.

And then a video.

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