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?

Noth­ing.

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.

Huh.

Strange.

Just the num­ber “13” scratched into the ply­wood under the floor.

Thir­teen.