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Poor Cindy. I should’ve known. I should’ve seen.

But I didn’t. Not until now.

At the bottom, beneath everything else, the straps. Leather. Dark with age. I know them by feel before I even look. My hands remember what my mind has spent years trying to forget. I fold them carefully and set them aside. I’ll find a use for them.

The only thing left in the box is another picture. I peel it free.

The unnamed man.

The same man from the photograph upstairs, standing beside my father, his hand on my shoulder. But in this one, he’s alone. Smiling. Confident.

Behind him, barely visible in the shadows: the bench.This bench.

My stomach flips. My spine goes rigid. I slam the lid shut, the crack of metal ringing out like a gunshot in the small space. The sound snaps something inside me. My hands shake violently, my fingers barely holding on to the rusted box.

My knees crash into the dirt. I barely feel it.

My heart pounds, wild and uneven, drumming in my ears, drowning out everything else.

That man.

Who is he?

Why can’t I remember?

I press a hand to my chest, trying to slow my breath, but it’s no use. Panic claws up anyway, vicious and fast. Did he touch me? Was I one of his, too?

The questions tear at my skull like broken glass, but there are no answers. Just flashes. Glimpses.

Shadows that won’t settle.

And that makes me feel small.

Weak.

Useless.

What kind of person forgets the shape of their own scars?

Tears sting the edges of my vision, but I blink them back, jaw tight.

I dig my nails into my palms until it hurts, until the pain becomes a lifeline. Something real.

This man matters.

I don’t know how I know that, but I do.

And my mind, my broken, traitorous mind, won’t give him back to me.

But that doesn’t mean I’ll stop looking.

My father’s letter said the truth lies with Kerr.

But this man?

He’s part of it. I feel it like a splinter in my gut.

I rise slowly, box pressed tight against my chest, a second heart, heavy and rusted and filled with rot.