My chest tightened. My head buzzed, as though something dormant had been stirred awake.
I could not tell whether I was remembering something real or simply giving shape to fears I had carried for years.
I looked at my mother, and she looked back at me without speaking.
We both understood that whatever this object was, it was not merely something my father owned.
It was something he carried with him—something that shaped him, drained him, perhaps even defined him.
The drawer was closed again.
The box was locked.
But the fear did not return to where it came from.
Because once something hidden has been seen, it can never truly be unseen.
