I stared at him.
“Paid you for what?”
He looked over his shoulder before leaning closer.
“To bury an empty coffin.”
For a moment, my mind refused to process the words.
“My father is dead,” I said. “I saw him.”
The man’s expression never changed.
“You saw what he wanted you to see.”
Then he pressed something cold into my hand.
A small brass key.
The number 17 was stamped into the metal.
“Don’t go home,” he said. “No matter who calls. No matter what they tell you. Go to Unit 17. Route 9 Storage. Your father left instructions.”
“My father died three days ago.”
That was when my phone buzzed.
The message was from my mother.
Come home alone.
Three words.
No explanation.
No signature.
No “sweetheart.”
My mother never texted like that.
The gravedigger saw the message and immediately went pale.
“Don’t,” he said quietly. “Whatever happens, don’t go home yet.”
I looked at the grave.
Then at my mother.
Then at the brass key.
“What is happening?”
The gravedigger reached into his coat and handed me an old envelope.
My name was written across the front in my father’s unmistakable handwriting.
Julian.
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