Vault door

One drawer stopped him cold: “Rowe.” He yanked it open and froze. Letters addressed to his father spilled into view, all unsent, all unanswered. Neat cursive ink covered every page.
“I wish you had answered,” one read. Elliot sat heavily in a nearby chair. His uncle hadn’t been hiding—he’d been calling out. To family. To him.
Page 44 of 63