Inside was not empty. There was order, careful and calm, like someone had packed a small life and closed the door. A bundle of yellowed envelopes tied with twine. A velvet pouch the color of night. A brass key with a worn tag, the writing faded to ghosts. A small tin wrapped in floral cloth, heavier than it looked.

He placed each piece on the bench in a neat row, hands shaking. The envelopes had dates, 1979, 1983, 1986, a steady drumbeat of years. A corner of an old photograph peeked from one, two figures on a porch, faces turned away as if hiding. The key’s tag showed only the memory of letters, maybe a bank name, maybe a locker, impossible to say. The longer he looked, the more the garage felt crowded, like the past had pulled up a chair beside him. What happened next will shock you.