He wasn't looking for anything.
That was the thing about it.
He had been reorganizing the study — not the filing system, just the physical space, making room for a second desk that was arriving Thursday because Cara had started pulling herself up on the edge of the existing one and had opinions about the keyboard — and he had moved a stack of boxes from the lower shelf to check what was in them before deciding where they went.
Most were Caelan's.
Documents. Old project files. The kind of thing that accumulated when you ran a company for long enough that the physical record predated the digital one.
The fourth box was lighter than the others.
He opened it.
Inside:
A notebook. Dark green cover, worn at the corners.
A folded photograph.
A letter in an envelope with his name on the front in handwriting he recognized.
His mother's.
He sat down on the floor.
He looked at the envelope for a long time before he opened it.
Not because he was afraid of what was inside.
