Inside was a single folded page and a photograph.
The photograph slipped out first.
It showed my father standing in front of our first restaurant building many years before I bought it. Beside him was a young woman with Emma’s eyes.
Emma made a small sound.
Not fear.
Recognition.
She turned the photo over.
Written on the back were six words.
For Emma, when she finally comes home.
Emma stood in the middle of the library with the old photograph trembling in her hands.
For a moment, no one spoke.
The house seemed to hold its breath around us. Dust floated in a shaft of sunlight near the window. Somewhere down the hall, a clock ticked with slow, stubborn patience, counting seconds none of us knew how to use.
My father’s face stared up from the photograph.
Younger than I remembered him.
Broader in the shoulders.
Still wearing the same half-smile that made people trust him before he ever
