My daughter will come home.
Then, fifteen years later, Harold died.
The funeral was modest. People called it “strict” and “old-fashioned.” Noah stood next to his mother and noticed something strange.
Margaret had been mourning Lily for fifteen years.
But she did not cry for her father.
After the funeral, Noah and Daniel went to Harold’s old house to empty it.
The house smelled of dust, medicine, and closed windows. Heavy curtains blocked out the light. Family photos hung across the walls. At the far end of the room was Harold’s bedroom.
Noah entered and felt a strange cold.
Daniel opened the drawers while Noah removed the sheets from the bed. Then he noticed that the mattress looked uneven.
One corner was higher than the others.
He picked it up.
First, it lives in old newspapers.
And something pink.
Noah’s heart stopped.
He threw it slowly.
It was a piece of old fabric. Faded. For sale. Almost in pieces.
But in one corner, there were three small white flowers.
Hand-sewn.
Noah fell to his knees.
– Dad…
Daniel turned around.
“What’s there?”
Noah lifted the cloth with trembling hands.
I think it was Lily’s.
Daniel fixed it. Every color was left on his face.
Then he murmured:
“Don’t touch anything else.
Twenty minutes later, the police cars were outside the house.
