We were standing by the open window and conversing.
"Can you swear that you don't know him, Mark?"
I cried, half angered, half in a mind to laugh at his evasions.
"Not yet", he said "but I've got a grand memory for forgetting, Susan."
With that, his head rolled on his shoulder and he was gone. Never to provide a full answer as to my father's true identity.
Night fell as I walked home via the beach. If only I could spend a day with him in the house he had bought at the edge of the cliff - a house buried among rose blossoms and mulberry trees - the most beautiful thing!
I arrived home, trembling from the events that just occurred. Ready, simultaneously, to punch through the closest wall and to fall in a heap right there on the spot sobbing for answers and the soft tones of his voice delivering them. I decided, instead, to rifle through his office. The office he had kept locked from me all these years. A very peculiar, but not strong nor displeasing, odour came from his drawers. For a moment I worried he may catch me at any second. I remembered his recent passing and became overwhelmed with sorrow. My eyes grew wet and my legs buckled from underneath me. After a good twenty minutes, I returned to the front hall and grabbed my coat - I couldn't stay here any longer.
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