PART 5 — THE SHADOWY PAST IN THE DUNE HOUSE
The doorway remained dark, as if the house wanted to deny us entry. Lucas protectively held his arm in front of me, though he was on guard himself. Together we crossed the threshold and entered the abandoned, cool interior.
The hallway smelled musty. The carpeting was worn at the edges and a thick layer of dust lay on the small tables. But there was life in the house: in the living room past the hallway, a small gas heater was burning, casting a flickering, orange light against the walls.
"Hello?", Lucas called out, his voice echoing through the empty house. "Is anyone here?"
No answer. Only the crackle of the stove and the howling of the wind outside.
We walked further into the living room. There stood an old, sagging armchair, a small table with a cup of cold tea, and... an open cardboard box, strikingly similar to the chest I had hidden in my closet at home.
My eyes glided over the contents of that box. Photos. Dozens of old family photos.
I picked up one of the photos. It was a snapshot of Lucas when he was about five years old, playing on the beach with a red bucket. On the back, written in the handwriting of my late husband Willem, it read: "Our future, our everything."
A pang of pain pierced my chest. So Willem hadn't thrown these photos away. He had kept them here, hidden in this remote house in the dunes, far away from our everyday reality. Why would a man who chased away his own son and lied about his whereabouts for decades keep a box full of childhood memories in a place where nobody could come?
"Mom, look at this," Lucas said suddenly with a voice that sounded like he had seen a ghost.
He was standing at a small dining table against the back wall. On the table lay an open leather-bound diary. Lucas pointed to the penultimate page, where the ink still appeared relatively fresh.
I walked over to him and read the lines over his shoulder. The diary belonged to Willem. The date at the top of the page was from exactly three weeks ago—shortly before Willem died, or wait... no, the date didn't match. Willem had died fifteen years ago, but this handwriting... this diary had recently been kept by someone else using Willem's old books. Or had Willem faked his death?
My breath caught in my throat. The thought was too crazy to be true. My man had been under the earth in the village cemetery for fifteen years. I had been at his funeral. I had seen his coffin.
And yet... the words in the diary told a completely different story. "If they find the box in the dunes, it is time for the truth. I am sorry I had to keep it secret for so long to protect them."
Who was "they"? And who had written this diary?
Suddenly we heard a soft sound from the bedroom behind the living room. The sound of sliding wood, followed by a deep, rattling sigh.
