The next morning, I rented a car and drove to the storage place on Cedar Street. It wasn’t far, but every mile felt heavy. What if this was a mean trick? Or worse, what if it was empty?

The manager handed me a key after checking my ID. “Locker 108 is yours now,” he said with a small smile.

I walked through rows of metal doors until I found the right one. My hands shook as I turned the key. The door creaked open, showing a small space with boxes and a wooden chest.

In the first box, I found photo albums—pictures of Alaric and me in happier times. Beach trips, birthdays, lazy Sundays. There were also letters in Alaric’s handwriting addressed to me. I sat on the floor and opened the first one.