PART 2 — Secrets from the Past
My hands trembled as I looked at the contents of the wooden box. Right on top lay a weathered leather notebook, bound with a yellowed ribbon that seemed soaked by the tooth of time. Next to it lay a brass key with an intricate pattern and a stack of handwritten letters. The letters on the topmost envelope were unmistakable: the sturdy, slightly right-slanting handwriting of my late husband, Thomas.
"How did you get this, Elena?" I asked in a hoarse voice, staring as if hypnotized at my husband's name. Thomas had died five years ago from a sudden cardiac arrest. I thought I knew everything about him. After all, we had been married for forty-two years. We shared a home, children, joy, and sorrow. There were no secrets between us… or so I had always thought.
Elena sighed deeply and stepped into my hallway. She closed the door carefully behind her, as if the neighbors could hear the secrets she carried if she left the door open. "Thomas gave me this box, Maria. Exactly one week before he died," she said quietly as she placed the box carefully on the kitchen table. "He made me swear that I wouldn't give it to you until the time was right. He said: 'When Maria becomes too lonely, when she threatens to give up, then give her this key to my real life.'"
My heart pounded in my throat. "My 'real' life? What on earth does that mean?"
"Thomas loved you with all his heart, Maria. You must never doubt that," Elena replied hastily, as if fearing I would jump to the wrong conclusions. "But there are things from his past that he couldn't tell you while he was alive. Things that could have put you in danger. Now that he is gone and the storms of the past have calmed down, it is time for you to learn the truth."
I picked up the first letter. The paper felt brittle and cold. As I unfolded the letter, an old black-and-white photograph fell out. The photo showed a young Thomas, no older than forty-five. But he wasn't alone. Standing next to him was a breathtakingly beautiful woman with dark, curly hair and a striking scar on her left eyebrow. They weren't holding each other like lovers, but rather like partners bound together by a shared trauma. On the back of the photo, written in Thomas's handwriting, was: 'Antwerp, 1978. Flight 402. Never forget her.'
1978… That was the year before Thomas and I met. He had always told me that during that time he worked as a simple carpenter in a small village. He rarely spoke about his youth or the seventies, and I had never suspected anything unusual behind it. I assumed he was simply a quiet man who preferred looking forward rather than back.
"Who is this woman, Elena?" I asked, my fingers gliding over the scar in the photograph.
Elena looked out the window, where a light drizzle was beginning to fall. "Her name was Sofia. And if you want to know what really happened to Thomas, we have to go somewhere today. To the place he went every Monday precisely on the dot when he said he was driving to the hardware store."
My breath caught. I remembered those Mondays. Thomas always left the house promptly at two in the afternoon and didn't return until around six. Sometimes he brought back a pack of screws or sandpaper to back up his story. I had never considered that a trip to the hardware store didn't need to take four hours.
"Where are we going?" I asked, quickly putting on my jacket.
"To an old warehouse on the edge of town," Elena said. "The brass key in the box fits the door of a room on the top floor. I've never been inside myself. Thomas forbade it. He said that only you have the right to cross that threshold."
Half an hour later, we were sitting in Elena's old, rusty car. The windshield wipers glided rhythmically across the windshield, producing a monotonous, soothing sound that contrasted sharply with the storm raging inside my head. The town slowly transformed from cozy residential areas into a gray industrial zone. High, abandoned factory buildings towered against the gray sky.
Elena parked the car in front of a dilapidated brick building. The windows were boarded up with wooden planks, and the roof showed signs of destruction by the tooth of time. It looked like a place no one had visited in decades.
"Here it is," Elena said.
We got out and walked over to a small iron side door. Elena pointed to the lock. With trembling fingers, I inserted the brass key from the box into the keyhole. The lock turned surprisingly smoothly, as if it had been oiled just yesterday. The door swung open with a deep groan. Inside, it was pitch dark and smelled of moisture, old paper, and… a hint of the familiar pipe tobacco Thomas used to smoke.
We climbed a dusty wooden staircase to the top floor. At the end of a long, dark hallway was a heavy oak door. Here, the key fit once more.
I pushed the door open. The room beyond was surprisingly clean. There was a large desk, walls covered with maps and newspaper clippings from the seventies and eighties, and in the middle of the room stood a heavy steel safe.
But it wasn't the safe that caught my attention. On the desk stood a brand-new, burning candle. The wax was still liquid and warm.
Someone had been here just minutes ago.
Before I could say anything, we heard the heavy iron door downstairs slam shut with a loud bang, followed by the sound of hurried footsteps on the wooden stairs…
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