A chain-link fence. A keypad gate. Rows of metal doors.
I parked and walked to the office, but it was closed for lunch.
I didn’t care.
I punched in the unit row number from the map posted outside and walked down the aisle of doors until I found it.
108.
The lock looked ordinary.
The key didn’t.
It was worn smooth in places, like my father had held it often. Like he’d carried it in his pocket and touched it when he needed to remind himself he still had a plan.
My hands shook so badly I missed the lock on the first try.
On the second try, it clicked.
I lifted the door.
And the world my father had hidden opened in front of me.
Boxes stacked neatly, labeled in thick black marker:
PHOTOS
BUSINESS — 2016–2019
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