The key turned with a soft click.
Daniel sat at the old kitchen table, the lockbox open in front of him. Morning light slanted through the window, catching dust motes in the air. His hands were steady, but his heartbeat wasn't.
Inside, folded letters and photographs rested neatly—his mother's handwriting on delicate envelopes, faded by time. He picked one up, tracing her name on the front. For Daniel.
His throat tightened as he unfolded the first letter.Her words were warm. Steady.And they broke him open.
"My boy,If you're reading this, I'm gone. But you are not alone. You never will be."
He had thought he was ready.He wasn't.
Tears blurred the words, but he kept reading. She spoke of love. Of strength. Of forgiveness—for her mistakes, for his father's. She told him stories he had never heard before. About when he was born. About how he smiled, even as a baby, like he understood something the world had forgotten.
He laughed through his tears. "You always saw too much," he whispered.
And then, at the very bottom of the box, he found a small journal. Bound in cracked leather.His father's journal.
Daniel hesitated. But he opened it.And the first thing he saw was a sketch—his mother's face, drawn with such tenderness it stole his breath.Below it, a single sentence:"She was my home."
Daniel closed his eyes. His father had never said those words aloud. Not once. But here they were, left for him to find.
He realized, then, that grief wasn't a wall. It was a door.And maybe… just maybe, it was time to walk through iT.