Christmas garland.
A broken milkshake machine.
Three chairs my father had insisted he would fix someday.
No blue toolbox.
I was about to give up when Ray, crouched near the old freezer, said, “Anna.”
Something in his voice made me turn.
He was holding a small cardboard box labeled in my father’s handwriting.
NAPKINS / EXTRA MENUS.
Except it was far too heavy for napkins.
I knelt beside him and opened it.
Inside were menus, just as labeled.
Underneath them was a folded dish towel.
Under that, a metal cash box.
Not the blue toolbox.
Smaller.
Black.
Locked.
My heart began to pound.
Ray whispered, “That yours?”
“No.”
The lock was old, the kind you could probably break with enough force, but I didn’t move.
Because taped to the top was an envelope.
And written on it in my father’s handwriting was one word.
Anna.
My knees weakened.
Ray saw it and gently took the box from my hands, setting it on the floor.
“You okay?”
“No.”
He sat back on his heels.
“We don’t have to open it tonight.”
I stared at my name.
My father’s handwriting had always been slightly slanted, confident, messy in a way that made every grocery list look like it had somewhere important to be.
Six years.
For six years, this had been beneath my feet.
Beneath the diner.
Waiting.
“Yes,” I said. “We do.”
My hands shook as I peeled the envelope from the box. The paper had yellowed slightly at the edges. It had been sealed, then sealed again with tape.
Inside was a single folded page.
I opened it carefully.
