When I moved into my late father’s house, I expected old memories—not the strange noises coming from the attic every night. At first, I blamed the sounds on the house settling, but curiosity slowly turned into fear. After installing hidden cameras, I finally saw the truth: a young woman and a little boy living behind a hidden door in the attic.
She told me my father had taken them in when they had nowhere to go, promising they’d be safe until I came. He hadn’t finished the letter he left me, but now I understood what he wanted to say. My father, distant and imperfect, had still tried to do something good—and now it was my turn to decide what came next.
