He slid the brass key across the table.
I found the old wooden box in the attic, beneath a blanket of dust. Inside were several cassette tapes, a photograph of my father with Gabriel and his mother, and a small envelope with my name written in Dad’s familiar handwriting.
My hands trembled as I pressed play.
“Abigail, sweetheart,” my father’s voice filled the quiet room. “If you’re hearing this, I’m sorry I couldn’t stay longer. Please remember that love isn’t measured by how much we have, but by what we’re willing to share.”
Tears streamed down my face.
Then he said something that broke my heart.
“Gabriel reminds me of myself when I was young. Someone once helped me when I had nothing. I promised I would do the same for someone else. I hope you’ll understand someday.”
I looked at Gabriel through my tears.
