Allison no longer had the key.
But for the first time, she was ready to open the door.
They found the old trellis behind the house.
Half of it had pulled away from the wall, and the wood groaned when Allison put her weight on it.
“This is a terrible idea,” Krish whispered.
“You’ve said that four times.”
“I’m hoping eventually you’ll listen.”
Allison climbed anyway.
The broken window belonged to the upstairs bathroom. She reached the sill, pushed away a jagged piece of glass, and pulled herself inside.
A moment later, Krish followed.
The house smelled like dust and wet wood.
Allison switched on her phone flashlight.
Everything looked smaller than she remembered. The hallway where she and Krish used to race was narrow. The wallpaper had peeled into long strips. A family of spiders had claimed the ceiling corner.
Then Allison saw the pencil marks beside the bathroom door.
Dates. Names. Heights.
Allison, age 8.
Krish, age 6.
And above them, in their father's handwriting.
Still growing.
Allison touched the faded marks.
“Come on,” Krish said softly.
Their father's bedroom was at the end of the hall.
The door stood open.
Most of the furniture was gone, but the floorboards remained. Allison counted from the doorway.
One.
Two.
Three.
She knelt and pushed her fingers into the gap beside the third board.
It lifted surprisingly easily.
Underneath was a black notebook.
“That’s it?” Krish asked.
Allison picked it up.
On the cover, written in white marker, were two words.
FOR THEM.
She opened it.
The first page contained a date from nearly four years earlier.
I don't know how to tell them.
Allison turned the page.
Another entry.
The doctor says the treatments might work, but there are no promises.
Her stomach tightened.
She looked at Krish.
He had gone pale.
Allison kept reading.
The entries were short. Some were only a sentence.
Hospital visits.
Tests.
Bills.
Their father trying to hide how sick he had become.
Then came an entry dated two days before he left.
They think I'm abandoning them. Maybe I should let them.
Allison's hand froze.
“No,” she whispered.
She turned the page.
If Allison knows I'm sick, she'll try to take care of me. That's who she is. She's thirteen and already watches Krish like she's his second mother. She'll give up school, friends, everything. I won't let my illness become her childhood.
Another page.
I'm going to my sister's in Oregon for treatment. I told the kids I'm leaving because I need a different life.
Krish sat on the floor.
“He lied.”
Allison couldn't answer.
She flipped faster now.
There were months of entries.
Some hopeful.
Some terrified.
Some written so shakily she could barely read them.
Then, near the end, she found a page addressed directly to them.
Allison. Krish.
If you're reading this, then I probably didn't get the chance to explain this myself.
Allison stopped.
The room blurred.
Krish moved closer until their shoulders touched.
She continued.
I thought leaving would protect you. I understand now that disappearing hurts people too.
I'm sorry.
There is no good excuse for making two children wonder why their father didn't choose them.
Allison pressed her lips together.
For years, that had been the question.
Why hadn't he chosen them?
She had carried it to school. To birthdays. To Christmas mornings. She had carried it every time someone asked about her parents.
She had carried it like the key around her neck.
The final entry was dated almost three years ago.
Treatment failed.
Below it, their father had written.
I asked your aunt to bring me home if there's time. I want to see you. I want to tell you everything myself.
But if I lose my nerve again, or if there isn't enough time, the notebook stays here.
Maybe someday you'll find it.
And maybe someday you'll forgive me.
Allison closed the notebook.
For a long time, the house was silent.
Then Krish said, “Did he die?”
Allison looked at him.
“I don't know.”
That was the strangest part.
They had spent three years believing their father was somewhere out there living a new life without them.
They had never searched very hard.
Allison had been too angry.
Their mother had refused to talk about him.
And now there was a notebook in her hands suggesting an entirely different ending.
A sound came from downstairs.
Both of them froze.
A floorboard creaked.
Krish whispered, “Please tell me old houses just do that.”
Another creak.
Then footsteps.
Someone was inside.
Allison switched off her flashlight.
A beam of light appeared beneath the bedroom door.
Krish grabbed her arm.
The footsteps came closer.
Allison's heart hammered.
Then a voice called from the hallway.
“You two were never good at following instructions.”
Allison stopped breathing.
The bedroom door moved.
A woman stood there holding a flashlight.
She was older than Allison remembered, her dark hair streaked with gray.
“Aunt Leslie?” Krish said.
Leslie looked at the notebook in Allison's hands.
Then she began to cry.
“Oh,” she said. “You found it.”
Allison stood.
“Where is he?”
Leslie's face answered before her mouth did.
Allison felt something inside her collapse.
“He died?” Krish asked.
Leslie nodded.
“Two years ago.”
The words seemed impossible.
Two years.
For two years, Allison had been angry at a dead man.
“Why didn't anyone tell us?” she demanded.
“Your mother knew.”
Allison stared at her.
“No.”
“She knew he was sick. She knew where he went. Your father asked her not to tell you at first. Later, when he wanted to come back, things became… complicated.”
“Complicated?”
Allison's voice cracked.
Leslie lowered her eyes.
“He was ashamed. Your mother was furious. And both of them kept thinking there would be a better time to explain.”
Allison laughed once, without humor.
“There wasn't.”
“No,” Leslie said. “There wasn't.”
Krish wiped his face.
“Did he ever come back?”
Leslie looked toward the window.
“Yes.”
Allison's heart jumped.
“When?”
“Three weeks before he died.”
“Here?”
Leslie nodded.
“He was weak. He couldn't climb the stairs anymore. I brought him to the riverbank. He sat there for hours.”
Allison suddenly remembered the metal box.
“The letter.”
“He put it there,” Leslie said. “Between those rocks.”
“Why there?”
Leslie gave her a sad little smile.
“Because that's where he always took you.”
Allison looked toward the window.
The river was hidden by the trees from here, but she could picture the spot perfectly. The flat stretch of bank. The two rocks. Her father standing beside her with a stone in his hand, showing her how to hold it.
“He said if you ever decided you were really done waiting for him, you'd come back there.”
Allison swallowed.
“And throw away the key?”
“He hoped so.”
Allison looked down at the notebook.
“He thought a lot of things,” she said bitterly.
Leslie didn't defend him.
“He made mistakes.”
“He left us.”
“Yes.”
“He lied.”
“Yes.”
“He died before he fixed any of it.”
Leslie's eyes filled again.
“Yes.”
Allison wanted her to argue.
She wanted someone to say that her father had been right, or wrong, or brave, or selfish.
Anything simple.
But there was nothing simple left.
He had loved them.
He had hurt them.
Both things were true.
Allison sat on the edge of the empty bed frame.
For years, she had imagined forgiveness as a door. Either you opened it or you didn't.
Now she understood it might be something else entirely.
Maybe forgiveness was just deciding you didn't want to carry the key anymore.
Outside, rain began tapping against the broken window.
Leslie sat beside them.
“He left one more thing,” she said.
Allison looked up.
Leslie reached into her coat pocket.
She handed Allison a small envelope.
Inside were two photographs.
The first showed their father near the end of his life. He was thin and bald, sitting in a wheelchair beside the river.
Allison almost didn't recognize him.
The second photograph showed the same river with the old house behind it.
On the back, he had written.
Home was never the house.
Below that.
It was you two.
Krish started crying.
This time Allison did too.
Not quietly.
Not gracefully.
She cried for the father she'd hated.
For the father she'd missed.
For the father who had loved her badly because he'd been afraid.
For all the conversations they would never have.
Krish leaned against her.
Allison held him.
And for once, she didn't try to be the strong one.
They stayed until the rain stopped.
Then Leslie drove them home.
On Monday morning, Allison and Krish returned to the river.
Across the water, machines surrounded the old house.
The excavator struck the porch first.
Wood cracked.
The roof shuddered.
Krish winced.
Allison didn't.
She held the notebook against her chest.
Around her neck, the red string was gone.
Within an hour, the house that had stood through their entire childhood was a pile of timber, plaster, and dust.
Allison expected to feel empty.
Instead, she felt strangely full.
Full of anger.
Full of grief.
Full of love she hadn't decided what to do with yet.
Maybe she didn't have to decide today.
Krish picked up a flat stone.
“You think the key's still down there?”
Allison looked at the river.
“Probably.”
“You want it back?”
She thought about thirteen-year-old Allison standing in the doorway, gripping the key while her father walked away.
She wished she could go back to that girl.
Not to warn her.
Not to explain everything.
Just to take her hand.
Allison picked up a stone of her own.
“No.”
She threw it.
Once.
Twice.
Three times it skipped across the water before disappearing.
Krish whistled.
“Lucky.”
Allison smiled.
“Skill.”
He threw his stone and managed two skips.
They stayed by the river until the machines stopped and the dust settled.
Then they turned toward home.
Behind them, the river kept moving.
Somewhere beneath it lay an old silver key, slowly disappearing under mud and stone.
Allison let it stay there.
There were some things worth finding.
And some things worth letting go.
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