I never imagined he meant secrets.
With careful hands, I opened the compartment.
Inside was a small box.
Old.
Dusty.
Waiting.
For fifteen years.
I stared at it.
A thousand thoughts crossed my mind.
Part of me wanted to close it.
To pretend I had never found it.
But another part of me—the part that had spent years wondering why my family broke apart—needed answers.
I opened the box.
Inside were several letters.
A key.
And a small audio recorder.
My breath stopped.
The recorder looked ancient compared to the technology I used every day.
But there was a label attached.
My name.
Written in my mother’s handwriting.
“Emma.”
I touched the label.
My fingers trembled.
Why would my mother leave something for me?
Why hide it?
Why wait?
I pressed the play button.
At first, there was only static.
Then…
A voice.
A voice I had not heard since I was sixteen.
“Emma.”
I froze.
The room disappeared.
There was only her voice.
Older.
Softer.
