There was no dust on the floor.
No boxes.
No newspapers.
Someone had been taking care of this room.
On the bed were dozens of letters.
Some had been opened.
Most had not.
All of them were addressed to Silas.
I moved closer without touching anything.
The oldest envelopes were faded, their corners softened by time. The newer ones were crisp and white. Birthday cards were arranged by year. Small packages had been stacked beside them, each bearing the same return name.
Elena Granger.
I looked at Silas.
“Who is Elena?”
His lips parted, but he hesitated before answering.
“My mom.”
The room seemed to become quieter around us.
“Where is your mother now?”
Silas looked toward the letters.
“Dad says she died when I was little.”
I crouched beside him.
“Are you certain that’s what he said?”
“He said she went away and couldn’t come back.”
Silas swallowed.
