A promise to speak to his grandmother later.
I stepped farther inside.
“Is your grandmother home?”
“She was when I left for school.”
“Does she usually meet you outside?”
“Sometimes.”
He closed the door behind us and lowered his voice.
“But this isn’t what I wanted to show you.”
His words made me stop.
On the wall beside the kitchen hung a calendar from the previous year. Every square had been crossed out in blue ink except October 14.
That date had been circled three times.
Beneath the calendar sat a small table covered with unopened mail. Several envelopes had red notices printed across them. Others appeared to be birthday cards that had never been mailed.
Silas walked past them.
“Back here.”
He led me through the kitchen, stepping sideways between a chair piled with blankets and a stack of empty canning jars. The refrigerator hummed. A kettle sat on the stove, and two clean cups rested beside it.
That detail caught my attention.
Two cups.
One had dried tea at the bottom.
The other still held a little warmth when I touched it.
“Did your grandmother have company this morning?”
Silas shook his head.
“She says nobody comes here.”
At the rear of the kitchen stood a tall pantry cabinet. It looked ordinary until Silas reached behind a hanging apron and pulled a small brass key from a hook.
He inserted it into a lock I had not noticed.
The entire pantry shifted.
It wasn’t a cabinet at all.
It was a narrow door built to resemble one.
Silas looked at me before opening it.
“This is what nobody believes.”
Behind the door was a small room.
Unlike the rest of the house, it was almost perfectly arranged.
A single bed stood against one wall, made with a pale yellow quilt. A sweater had been folded over the back of a chair. Books lined a narrow shelf. Fresh daisies stood in a glass jar beside the window.
There was no dust on the floor.
No boxes.
No newspapers.
Someone had been taking care of this room.
On the bed were dozens of letters.
Some had been opened.
Most had not.
All of them were addressed to Silas.
I moved closer without touching anything.
The oldest envelopes were faded, their corners softened by time. The newer ones were crisp and white. Birthday cards were arranged by year. Small packages had been stacked beside them, each bearing the same return name.
Elena Granger.
I looked at Silas.
“Who is Elena?”
His lips parted, but he hesitated before answering.
“My mom.”
The room seemed to become quieter around us.
“Where is your mother now?”
Silas looked toward the letters.
