“The House He Hid”

Deborah was there, sitting in an armchair, a small wooden box open on her lap.

She didn’t notice me at first.

Inside the box were photographs. Old ones. Faded at the edges.

And in every single one… was my father.

But he looked different. Younger. Happier.

And Deborah was right there beside him.

Laughing. Holding his hand.

My breath caught.

“What… is this?” I whispered.

Deborah froze.