“Do you think she loved me?”
“Yes.”
Immediate.
He looked out the window.
“How can you know?”
“Because she manipulated an entire pharmacy-grocery incident to meet you.”
He laughed.
Fair.
Then I said:
“But she also felt guilty.”
“Yes.”
“Both.”
He nodded.
We were all learning the word.
The wooden box stayed with Ethan.
Inside now:
Rachel’s letter.
Mom’s letter.
Hospital bracelet.
Photograph.
No money.
He kept financial documents elsewhere.
Good.
The box became history, not bank vault.
Then, one evening, Daniel called me.
His voice sounded strange.
“Ethan’s here.”
“Okay.”
“He brought the box.”
My stomach tightened.
“What happened?”
Daniel whispered:
“He wants me to open it.”
I went still.
“Why?”
“I don’t know.”
In the background I heard Ethan.
“Tell her she can come if she wants.”
So I did.
When I arrived, the box sat between them.
Same walnut.
Same brass clasp.
Daniel looked terrified again.
Ethan pushed the key across the table.
