Emma didn't go to work the next day.
She called in sick—voice flat, eyes hollow—and spent the morning sitting on the edge of her bed, staring at the box that once belonged to the only father she had ever known. The man who had read her stories, built her a treehouse, and called her Emma. The man who had loved her like she was his own… because, in every way that mattered, she was.
Except she wasn't.
Not by blood. Not by name.
Evelyn Grace Morgan.
Her mother's words circled endlessly in her mind. Her father had left. Disappeared before she was born. But who was he? Where did he go? Did he even know she existed?
Emma couldn't stop thinking about the blank line on the birth certificate. The way it sat beside "Father:" like a hole that had always been there—she just hadn't seen it.
And now, she needed to fill it.
⸻
Around noon, she walked to the only café in town where nobody asked questions—Finley's. She ordered a tea she wouldn't drink again and took the table by the window, the same one she and her father used to sit at every Sunday before church. Back when things were simple. Back when she was Emma and that was enough.
She pulled the letter out of her bag and read it again.
"What we buried will come back to destroy what little peace remains."
What had they buried?
A name?
A man?
The truth?
Her thoughts were so loud, she didn't notice someone standing across from her table until he spoke.
"Mind if I sit?"
Emma looked up.
The man was tall, early thirties maybe, with dark eyes and neatly trimmed stubble. He wore a charcoal-grey coat, one hand still in his pocket. His face was familiar, though she couldn't place it.
"I'm sorry?" she asked, startled.
"I didn't mean to intrude," he said quickly. "You just looked like someone who might want company… or at least someone who wouldn't mind distraction."
Emma blinked. "Do I know you?"
He smiled faintly. "No. Not officially. But I think I know you."
She stiffened. "What do you mean?"
He lowered his voice. "You're Evelyn, aren't you?"
The world tilted.
Emma gripped the edge of the table. "What did you just say?"
He raised his hands gently. "I'm not here to upset you. I promise. My name's James Miller. I knew your father."
Her voice caught in her throat. "Richard Clarke?"
He shook his head.
"I mean your biological father."
Emma felt everything inside her go cold.
"I don't understand," she said. "Who are you? Why would you know him?"
James pulled out his wallet and slid a photograph across the table. It was old, slightly faded. Two men stood beside each other—one was clearly younger, thinner, but unmistakably her.
The same eyes.
Same dark lashes.
Same faint arch in the left brow.
"My uncle," James said. "His name was Michael Morgan."
Emma's fingers trembled as she picked up the photo. "That's my father?"
James nodded. "Your real father. And he didn't leave because he didn't care."
Emma stared at him, heart racing. "Then why did he leave?"
James hesitated. "That's… complicated."
"I'm tired of 'complicated,'" she said sharply. "I want the truth."
James leaned forward. "I only know part of the story. He and your mother had a falling out. She said some things. So did he. He wasn't perfect, but he never stopped wondering what happened to you. I found out about you after he died."
Emma's voice dropped to a whisper. "He's dead?"
James nodded. "Two years ago. Car crash in Kent."
The room spun.
First Richard. Now this.
Two fathers. Both gone. Both full of secrets.
"I don't know what to believe anymore," she said quietly.
James looked at her gently. "That's why I came. I've been looking for you since I found a letter he left. For you. He told me if anything ever happened to him, and I ever found you, I should give it to you."
He reached into his coat and pulled out a second envelope.
Her name was written on it. Not Emma. Not even Evelyn.
Just:
My Daughter
Her eyes filled.
James stood. "I'll leave you to read it. I'm not going far. I'll be staying in town for a few days, at the Riversend Inn. Room 14."
She couldn't speak.
"I'm sorry it took this long," he added softly. "But you deserved to know."
And then he was gone.
Emma sat motionless.
Her fingers hovered over the envelope.
Then slowly, she opened it.
⸻
My dearest girl,
If you are reading this, I am gone, and you have questions no one else will answer honestly. I was young, selfish, and scared when I left. But I never forgot you. Not for one day.
They made me the villain in your story. I accept that. But I need you to know, from me—not through someone else—that I loved you. Even when I couldn't be there. Even when I didn't deserve to be.
You were the best thing I ever did.
Love always,
Dad.
Emma's tears hit the page before she could stop them.
For the first time in her life, someone had called her daughter… and it felt real.
⸻
She didn't know who she was anymore.
But now, she was ready to find out.