For weeks, he barely touched his food. But that day, something shifted. His voice, usually quiet and weak, came through with surprising clarity.
“Tuna casserole,” he said, smiling faintly. “The kind your mom used to make—with those little crispy onions on top.”
It was as if he’d been holding on, waiting for this one request. I made it exactly the way he remembered, even serving it in a paper bowl, like we used to when I was a kid. When I brought it to him, his smile lit up the room—so bright it almost made us forget the pain.
He sat on the edge of the bed with a towel over his shoulders, savoring each bite like it was a memory. Then, halfway through, he paused and looked at me—not with sadness, but with intention.
“I need you to do something,” he said. His voice was firm, clearer than it had been in weeks. “After I’m gone, go up to the attic. Behind the old closet. Pull up the third floorboard from the left.”
I froze. This wasn’t one of those moments clouded by confusion. He was clear, focused, and serious.
“What’s under the floor?” I asked softly.
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