“He gave me this twenty years ago,” the gravedigger said. “Told me I would know when to give it to you.”
Twenty years.
My father had prepared something long before any of this began.
Then the gravedigger turned and walked away between the headstones like a man finally free from a burden he had carried for decades.
I did not go home.
Instead, I sat in my car and opened the envelope.
Inside was a short letter.
No explanation.
No farewell.
Only instructions.
Go to Unit 17. Trust the woman waiting there. Do not go home until you understand why.
By the time I reached Route 9 Storage, darkness was settling across the highway.
The facility sat behind a chain-link fence near a gas station and a row of aging warehouses.
Security cameras watched the entrance.
A small American flag snapped in the wind.
And beneath the office awning stood a woman in a dark coat who appeared to be expecting me.
Before I could speak, she raised a badge.
Federal Bureau of Investigation.
My stomach dropped.
“Mr. Mercer,” she said, “your father told us you would come alone.”
I looked toward Unit 17.
The storage door sat only a few yards away.
Yet it felt impossibly distant.
“What’s inside?” I asked.
The agent’s expression tightened.
“Enough evidence to explain why your father needed an empty coffin.”
Then my phone started ringing.
My mother again.
The agent glanced at the screen.
“Do not answer that.”
At that exact moment, something inside Unit 17 began to beep.
The storage unit suddenly felt colder.
The agent unlocked the door.
Inside sat a folding table, a laptop, and several sealed boxes marked with dates spanning nearly six years.
The beeping continued.
Then the laptop screen flickered to life.
My father appeared on the screen.
Alive.
The room became silent.
Even the agent froze.
“Listen carefully,” my father said.
“I am not dead.”
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