I tore the cabin apart—gently, reverently. Under floorboards warped by time, in a tea tin behind flour sacks, in a hollowed-out copy of Wuthering Heights, I found pieces of a life erased:
- Faded letters from a man named Cedric, his words full of love and desperation:
“He asks about you every night. He has your eyes.” - A birth certificate:
Jasper Bellamy.
Mother: Eleanor Voss.
Father: Cedric Bellamy. - A single photograph, tucked in a Bible: a toddler in overalls, grinning, missing two front teeth—my brother—holding a frog like it was treasure.
By dawn, I was at the public library, heart hammering, asking about a man named Jasper.
Mrs. Tawny, the librarian—eighty if she was a day, eyes sharp as flint—leaned in.
“Oh, him,” she said, voice softening. “Used to come in every Saturday. Always checking the newspaper archives. Said he was looking for the mother who gave him a second chance… and the sister he never knew.”
She tapped the counter.
“He fixes cars now. Bellamy Auto. Two blocks down.”
The Meeting
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