William sat on a milk crate, the basement quiet around him. He had recently moved into his daughter’s guest cottage to downsize. Coming here to clear out his childhood home felt like stripping away layers of a life he thought he understood. The house felt empty now that he had moved out.
He ran a thumb over the edges of the box. His father had always been a man of careful order. Every tool in the garage had its place. Every bill was filed by date. The fact that this box was shoved behind pipes was jarring. It was not stored; it was buried.
“What were you hiding, Dad?” he whispered to the empty room. He looked at the photograph again. The tattoo was small, sharp, and clearly visible in the summer sun. It belonged to a version of his father that had never existed in any of the stories he had been told.