A pocket knife.
A baseball cap that looks like it’s been worn hard, the brim curved just right.
Every object is a punch. Every object is a memory. Him tossing me that cap at the lake when I was ten, laughing because it slid over my eyes. Him teaching me how to hold the pocket knife like a tool, not a weapon. Him writing in that notebook at the kitchen counter while I did homework, both of us pretending his leaving didn’t tear me in half every time.
I swallow.
I keep unpacking, because if I stop, I might fall apart.
At the bottom of the box is a small photo frame wrapped in tissue paper.
It’s cheap, scuffed up, like it’s been stuffed into a duffel and forgotten.
I peel the tissue away and my breath catches anyway. An old picture of me, Mom, and Dad, all of us squinting into the sun. It’s from that last summer before cancer took her away, when we still believed we had time.
I flip the frame over and run my fingers along the back. Something isn’t right.
A hidden latch. A thin panel.
I pop it open.
A flash drive.
Black. Unlabeled. Too small for the way my pulse jumps.
I move to my laptop on the counter like I’m on autopilot. My hands shake as I plug the flash drive in. The computer chimes softly, cheerful and oblivious.
A folder pops up.
My heart stutters.
The folder name is numbers and letters. No “For Sierra.” No “Love, Dad.” No “Open when you’re ready.”
I was hoping for a video. Pictures. Anything. It’s just code.
I click. A password prompt appears.
My mouth goes dry.
“Seriously?” I whisper.
I try his birthday.
Denied.
Mine.
Denied.
Mom’s.
Denied.
His favorite stupid saying.
Denied.
I try the obvious patterns he used on everything from his gym locker to the Wi-Fi password at his last rental.
