My father looked at me as if realizing the old rules no longer belonged to him.
All my life, I had waited for him to explain why he stopped saying my mother’s name, why he looked away when I asked about her, why the house treated my memories like clutter to be hidden away.
Now the explanation stood in front of me.
Sealed in cream paper.
“No,” I said.
The word was quiet, but it straightened my spine.
I opened the envelope.
Inside was a folded letter, several small photos, and a thin dark metal key marked L-17.
Dr. Vale inhaled.
My father stepped back.
I unfolded the letter.
My dearest Natalie,
If you are reading this, then you have grown into the kind of person I always believed you would become. I wish I could stand beside you today, see your uniform, hear your voice, and tell you every brave step you take belongs to you alone.
