The basement air smelled of dust and damp concrete. William shifted a stack of heavy boxes, his back aching. He wasn’t used to this much physical labor. He found a small, taped-up carton wedged behind some rusted pipes. It looked like it had been hidden there on purpose.
Inside, he found a photograph. It was black and white, aged to a soft sepia. It showed his father, Henry, at a lake in 1943. Henry was shirtless, smiling, and holding a baby—William. It was strange. William couldn’t remember seeing his father without a shirt in all his eighty years.
He leaned into the light, holding a magnifying glass over the photo. There was a dark mark on the inner arm. It wasn’t a birthmark; it was ink. A memory surfaced from a documentary he had watched months ago. It was a blood type tattoo, used by soldiers for quick medical treatment. This matched, and suddenly William felt his heart hammering in his chest. Was his father a ….?