After burying my wife, I finally unlocked the barn she had never allowed me to enter. For 37 years, it had been sealed off, a place she insisted held nothing but old tools and useless clutter. I expected dust, silence, and memories long forgotten.

I went downstairs and made coffee. Then I sat at the kitchen table and spread out the papers Brenda had left behind. The journal. The photographs. The handwritten notes with addresses and phone numbers. Everything Alan Ross had sent her over the years.

There it was.

The address of the woodworking shop where Brian worked.

A small town called Millbrook, five hours away by car.

I memorized the directions, folded the papers carefully, and put them in my jacket pocket.

I was halfway out the door when my phone rang.

Dennis.

I stared at the screen for a moment. Part of me wanted to ignore it. But I knew he would just keep calling, so I answered.

“Morning, Dad,” he said. His voice sounded flat, distant, like always.

“Morning,” I said.

“What are you doing today?”

I hesitated. I did not want to lie to him. But I also could not tell him the truth. Not yet. Not until I understood what I was doing myself.

“I’m going to visit an old friend,” I said finally.

There was a pause on the other end of the line.

“An old friend?” Dennis repeated. “Who?”

“Just someone I used to know,” I said. “No one you would remember.”

Another pause.

“All right,” he said slowly. “Well, call me if you need anything.”

“I will.”