clothes were touching the cold concrete.
Dad’s garage still smelled like sawdust, motor oil, and him.
After a while, Eric whispered:
“He knew.”
“He knew.”
“He knew I’d find everything.”
And gradually, we understood how carefully Dad had designed the entire thing.
There had even been another note inside the hidden closet.
Dad reminded Eric that when he was sixteen, he had once noticed the edge of the hidden bookcase hinge.
Eric had forgotten.
Dad hadn’t.
He had built the entire plan around the son he actually had.
Not the son he wished Eric had been.
Not some idealized version of him.
The real Eric.
The boy who noticed details.
The man who preferred finding answers himself rather than asking for help.
Dad had designed the message specifically for the person receiving it.
—
Then Mr. Lawson appeared in the garage doorway.
“There’s one last thing.”
This time, Dad hadn’t wanted
