“He spent years trying to find you,” Carter said. “He asked me to give this to you personally.”
My hands didn’t feel steady as I reached for the box.
“He left instructions. This was meant for you alone.”
The box gave a soft creak as I opened it slowly.
I didn’t realize that what I was about to see would prove that the homeless man I met 27 years ago wasn’t who I thought he was.
The name struck me instantly.
Inside the box was a worn leather notebook.
I opened it carefully. Every page had dates, and next to each one, a short note.
The first one stopped me cold.
“Nov. 12, 1998 — Girl named Nora. Two babies. Gave me $10. Don’t forget this.”
My vision blurred instantly, and I pressed my hand to my mouth.
I turned the page.
More entries about other people.
Different years.
Same pattern.
The first one stopped me cold.
But my name appeared more often than that of any other person.
