I thought that was the whole truth.
It wasn’t.
Back in the attic, the later letters revealed more.
Daniel had survived. He had been a prisoner of war for three years. After returning, he found Martha—but saw her happy with a new family.
“I won’t destroy what you’ve built,” he wrote.
He lived in the same town. For decades.
Watching from afar.
I found his address and went there.
The house was empty.
A neighbor told me he had died three days earlier.
Three days.
The same time I had started hearing the scratching.
When I told Martha, she admitted he had visited her three weeks before.
“He brought something for James,” she said.
Back in the attic, beneath the letters, I found a Purple Heart, a diary, and a photograph.
Daniel. Martha. A baby.
James.
When I gave the box to my son, his hands trembled.
“Dad,” he said, “I need to tell you something.”
