It was a small brass key, worn smooth at the edges, with a paper tag tied through the hole. Written on the tag in my father’s blocky handwriting were a number, 214, and the name of a storage company across town. My hands shook. I stepped into the hallway, away from the music, and stared at it. Dad had never mentioned a storage unit to me or to Mom, and he hated keeping secrets from her.

Then I remembered the last weeks of his life. He had come home late almost every evening, smelling of dust, coughing harder, and brushing off every question. I called my mother, and my voice cracked when I asked if she knew anything. She was silent for a long moment. Then she whispered, “Don’t go there alone. Wait for me.”