Part 33
Derek clicked on his flashlight, its powerful beam cutting through the darkness and illuminating rows of sheeted objects.
They looked like a gathering of ghosts, towering shapes of old wardrobes, desks, and crates covered in white canvas.
We walked down the main aisle, our footsteps echoing softly against the high concrete ceiling.
"Where do we even start looking, Mom?" Derek asked, his light dancing over the endless rows of storage.
"Your father had a private office in the back, behind the main storage floor," I remembered, walking toward the rear.
We found a small wooden door marked with a fading brass plaque that read Private.
The door was unlocked, creaking loudly as we pushed it open to reveal a modest room frozen in the past.
A heavy oak desk sat in the center, covered in a thick layer of grey dust, with an old leather chair behind it.
On the wall hung a large, framed painting of a stormy sea, a piece my husband had always loved.
I walked up to the desk, running my fingers through the dust, feeling a wave of grief for the man we lost.
"Look at the painting, Mom," Derek said, directing his flashlight toward the frame.
The painting was slightly crooked, a clear sign that someone had moved it recently, or that it concealed something behind it.
May you like
Derek reached up and carefully pulled the heavy frame away from the wall, revealing a small, built-in steel safe.
In the center of the safe door was a keyhole, surrounded by an intricate engraving of an oak tree.
