The hinges made a faint sound as I lifted the lid.
Inside was a photograph of Walter many years later, standing beside an elegant white-haired woman near a coastal garden, along with a leather notebook, several folded documents, and a small transparent sleeve.
Inside the sleeve was a ten-dollar bill.
For several seconds, I could not breathe properly.
It wasn’t necessarily the exact bill I had given him, but beneath it was a scrap of paper carrying handwriting I immediately recognized as my own.
Please get something warm.
I had completely forgotten writing those words.
The memory returned so clearly that I could almost hear the rain striking the stroller cover.
Beneath the bill was an envelope.
On the front, Walter had written my name.
I opened it with shaking hands.
Dear Caroline,
You probably remember me as a man who needed ten dollars. That was never entirely true.
