“I found this after she died,” he said. “I never opened it.”
Emily stared. “Why?”
“Because it had my name on it.” He swallowed. “And I was afraid of what she might have needed to say.”
Emily did not scold him. She understood too well how fear could turn even love into a locked box.
“Do you want to open it now?” she asked.
He sat beside her.
Together, they lifted the latch.
Inside were photographs, a pressed yellow flower, an old hospital bracelet from Emily’s birth, and a cassette tape labeled in Caroline’s handwriting.
For James and Emily, if the past returns.
Emily’s heart began to pound.
Dad stared at the tape as if it might speak before he was ready.
“We need a player,” Emily whispered.
“In the basement,” he said. “Maybe.”
He returned ten minutes later with an old portable cassette recorder, dusty but intact. His hands shook as he inserted the tape.
