Then I took the storage key too.

“I just need to look,” I told myself. “I deserve that much.”

I returned the wallet to its place, packed his things, and went back to the hospital.

He was still unconscious.

I stood beside him, holding his hand, searching myself for guilt. Instead, I found resolve.

“I love you,” I whispered. “But I need the truth.”

After leaving, I entered the storage facility’s address into my phone instead of heading home.

The building sat at the edge of town — rows of metal doors under buzzing fluorescent lights.

I unlocked the unit.

And my legs nearly gave out.

Inside were neatly stacked boxes labeled in Mark’s handwriting. Plastic bins. Photo albums. A garment bag hanging from a hook. Dust and old paper filled the air.

I opened the nearest box.

Photographs.

Mark was in them — younger, but unmistakably him. The same smile. The same posture. Hands tucked into pockets just as he still did.

But he wasn’t alone.

A woman stood beside him.