I unfolded the paper under the light of the lamp. On it, written in the neat, block lettering I had not seen in twenty-seven years, was a single word.
Storage.
I stared at my husband’s handwriting, my thumb rubbing the dry surface of the paper.
I turned the small piece of folded paper over, tracing the faded blue ink of James’s handwriting with my thumb. The paper was dry, almost brittle, smelling of the damp cedar closet where it had spent twenty-seven years behind the molding. I slipped the brass key into my apron pocket and slid the loose section of oak baseboard back into place. It clicked against the plaster with a dull, hollow sound that seemed too loud for a house where two other people were sleeping.
Upstairs, the floorboards creaked. I blew out the small brass lamp on the side table and waited in the dark until the footsteps settled, my hand resting on the banister until the wood felt warm.
By eight the next morning, Daniel was standing in the hallway, holding a fresh box of heavy-duty garbage bags. His hair was already messy, pointing in three different directions, and he ran his hand through it twice before he saw me. He looked tired, the kind of gray tiredness that comes from sleeping in a guest room that isn’t yours anymore.
