I nodded slowly, a strange feeling crawling up my spine.
“Dad always said it wasn’t safe. Old tools, maybe. Or wiring.
Caleb looked at me.
“Should we… check it out?”
My mouth felt dry.
I hesitated, but something inside pulled me forward.
“Yeah,” I whispered. “Let’s see.”
We walked to the narrow door near the kitchen. I used to pass it every day as a girl.
It had always felt like part of the background—unimportant and off-limits.
Now it felt like the center of everything.
Click.
The lock gave way.
The door creaked open, slow and loud. The air that drifted out was cool, earthy, and very still. Like it had been waiting for someone to remember.
The basement smelled like old wood, metal, and something deeper—time, maybe.
The kind of smell that clung to memories.
The single lightbulb swayed gently from the ceiling, casting soft shadows along the walls. Dust danced in the glow like tiny stars, swirling slowly every time we moved.
I stepped down the creaky stairs, each one groaning under my weight.
When we reached the bottom, my eyes adjusted to the gloom. That’s when I saw it.
Against the far wall stood a giant corkboard, wide as the dining room table upstairs.
It was covered in pinned-up photographs, yellowed papers, scribbled notes, and dozens of lines of red thread stretched between them.
It looked like something from a detective movie.
“What is this…?” I whispered, walking toward it like I was afraid it might vanish.
Caleb stayed close behind me. The air felt thick. My fingers trembled as I reached toward the middle of the board.
A black-and-white photo was pinned right at the center.
A woman in a floral dress stood in a garden, smiling gently at someone behind the camera.
Her hair was long and dark, falling in waves around her shoulders. Her eyes—soft and kind—looked like mine.
I dropped to my knees.
“That’s my mom.”
Caleb knelt beside me, his face puzzled.
“I thought your dad said she left.”
“He did,” I said, my voice barely holding steady.
“He said she disappeared when I was four. I always thought that was just a nicer way of saying she ran off.
That she didn’t want to stay. That she didn’t want me.”
We looked closer. Letters folded neatly and stacked by date.
Newspaper clippings circled in red pen.
Old envelopes with faded stamps. Notes in my dad’s familiar handwriting:
“New address in Sioux City?”Continue reading…
