The tin box, still in my hands, felt heavier now. It wasn't just a box with a note—it was a key. A key to something I had never considered before. My father, the man I had always thought of as a figure of strength and certainty, had left me a trail of breadcrumbs. But the path was unclear, and I could feel the pull of something deeper, something I hadn't fully understood yet.
I folded the note carefully and tucked it into my jacket pocket. My fingers still tingled from holding the box. Standing up from the bench, I felt an urge to keep moving, to keep uncovering whatever it was my father had left behind.
But where to begin?
I returned home that afternoon with the tin box and the note, feeling as if the very air around me had shifted. The quiet house felt suffocating now, filled with unanswered questions. My mother was sitting at the kitchen table, her gaze distant. She didn't seem surprised to see me home earlier than usual.
"How was your second visit?" she asked, looking up briefly from her book.
I hesitated before responding. "I found something… a tin box. There was a note inside."
Her eyes narrowed, but she said nothing, her silence urging me to continue.
"It's from Dad," I added quietly. "It's… strange. He left it there for someone to find. For me, maybe. I don't know."
Her expression softened, and for a moment, I saw a flicker of something in her eyes—something I hadn't noticed before.
She stood up slowly, walking over to me. "Where did you find this?" she asked.
"In the forest. Near the bench with his name carved on it."
She stared at me for a long moment, her face unreadable. Then, almost as if she had made a decision, she sat down at the table. "Your father," she began, "was always very private. He kept a lot of things to himself, even from me. He believed in leaving little marks, little messages, in places only he understood."
I sat across from her, my curiosity piqued. "What do you mean?"
She sighed, a heaviness in her chest that seemed to weigh on her. "Before we met, before he even became a part of my life, he was a very different man. He had… dark thoughts, you could say. But he always tried to keep them at bay, to keep them from affecting those he loved. I think the forest, that bench—it was his way of grounding himself, of making sense of it all."
I absorbed her words carefully, a sense of unease creeping up on me. "So, this trail... these marks... he left them on purpose?"
She nodded slowly. "I think he knew one day you'd come looking for answers. He hoped you would find them. He thought, maybe, if you understood what he was dealing with, it would make you stronger. Or at least more at peace with who you are."
Her words resonated with something deep inside me, though I couldn't yet make sense of it all. It felt like I was being given a map to a place I couldn't yet see.
That night, I sat in the dim glow of my desk lamp, my sketchbook open before me. I replayed the events of the day, the tin box, the note, and my conversation with my mother. What had my father been trying to tell me? What answers could be hidden in the forest, in the markings he had left behind?
The path was becoming clearer, but it was still shrouded in fog.
I looked down at my sketch of the forest, the bench, and the shadowed figure I had drawn. There was something about it—something more than just a depiction of a place. It felt like a guide, a symbol of the journey I was meant to take.
I began sketching again, this time adding something new. The figure on the bench, once faceless, now had eyes—deep, unsettling eyes. The more I drew, the more I realized that this was no ordinary figure. It was me, but it wasn't. It was a part of me I had been running from, a part of me I was only now beginning to understand.
The following days passed in a blur. I returned to the forest several times, looking for more signs, more messages my father might have left behind. But the answers were elusive, hidden within the shadows of the trees.
Each visit brought a new discovery—a small carved symbol on a tree, a broken piece of a forgotten object, an old stone marker—but nothing that directly pointed to the next step.
And yet, I couldn't shake the feeling that I was getting closer.
One afternoon, I found myself standing before the bench again, the air thick with anticipation. I stared at the carved name—James—and felt the weight of the past pressing down on me. There was something more here, something I hadn't fully realized yet. My father had left this message not just for me, but for everyone who would ever find it.
I closed my eyes and reached out, my fingers brushing against the rough wood.
Then I felt it. A faint pressure, like the bench itself was guiding my hand. I traced the letters of my father's name, and this time, something shifted. A hidden compartment slid open beneath the seat, revealing a small, weathered envelope.
My heart raced as I pulled it out, the weight of it almost unbearable. It was sealed with a wax emblem, the same one I had seen on the small box.
Opening it slowly, I saw my father's handwriting once more.
"There's always something more. Seek the answers, and you'll find them. Just don't lose yourself in the search."
I stared at the note, my mind whirling.
________
🚨 Chapter Locked!
To read the next chapter:
🔗 Copy this link: https://unlockcontent.net/cp/i/q8320?preview=1
📖 Chapter will unlock right after. Enjoy the secrets!