I had a daughter named Sarah.
My daughter was 38 years old.
But the photograph showed a baby born twenty years ago.
The basement door creaked open.
Richard’s footsteps approached.
Then he spoke in a voice I’d never heard before.
“I know you’re both down here.”
The younger Evelyn began to cry.
Richard appeared at the bottom of the stairs, holding a small black box.
He looked at the photograph in my hand and sighed.
“I was hoping you’d never find that.”
“Who is Sarah?” I demanded.
Richard stared at me for a long moment.
Then he opened the box.
Inside was a hospital bracelet, a tiny gold necklace, and a letter sealed with red wax.
He handed me the letter.
It was addressed to me.
And the signature at the bottom belonged to my daughter.
I opened it with shaking fingers.
The first sentence read:
“Mom, if you’re reading this, it means Dad has finally brought you back to the house. There’s something he never told you about the night of the fire…”
