“When I got out of pris0n, I ran to my father’s house, but my stepmother coldly told me, ‘Your father was 𝕓𝕦𝕣𝕚𝕖𝕕 a year ago.’ Sh0cked, I went to the cemetery to look for his grave. The gravedigger stopped me: ‘Don’t look for it. He’s not here. He asked me to give you this.’

Her mouth tightened. “He passed away last year. There was a funeral. This house belongs to us now.”

I stared at her, trying to process the words. “I was never told.”

“That is not my problem,” she replied. “You should leave.”

Before I could say another word, the door closed.

I stood there for several minutes, unable to move, listening to the muffled sounds of a life continuing without me on the other side of that door. Then I turned away and walked. I walked until my legs burned and my thoughts blurred together. Eventually, without planning to, I found myself at the gates of the city cemetery.

I did not know where my father’s grave was. I only knew I needed to be near him.

An older man stepped into my path before I could enter. His coat was faded, his hands rough, his posture steady.

“You are his son,” he said quietly, not asking a question.

I nodded.

“He asked me to give you something,” the man continued. “He said you would come alone.”

He handed me a worn envelope and a small key taped to a card with a handwritten address and unit number.