You almost trip.
You don’t know why you came up here. You don’t know why you want to cry. He’s not here. He’ll never be here again.
You look down.
The floorboard is loose.
You don’t remember floorboards. You thought his bedroom had laminate, fake-wood floors, in between the puffy carpeting. Shows how well you know your own house.
You pry it up. You’re sure it’s what he’d have done. He probably hid something under it. Maybe something for you to find?
Wait! Something shiny!
It’s just a little, tiny, silver jewelry latch.
You wonder what it’s for.
There’s something else. Some scratches.
You wish you had a flashlight. You could use–
No. You’ll just go downstairs and get a flashlight.
You go. You return. You shine the light.
Just the number “13” scratched into the plywood under the floor.