I searched the toolbox once more.

Beneath a tray filled with screws, I discovered a black address book with a cracked spine.

Nearly every number had been crossed out, but one name remained untouched.

Rose.

My thumb hovered over the number.

Then I called from our landline.

The phone rang five times.

“Hello?” a woman answered.

Her voice sounded older and guarded.

Silence stretched between us.

“Richard?” she whispered, apparently recognizing the number. “Is that really you?”

I tightened my grip on the receiver’s tangled plastic cord.

“This isn’t Richard. It’s his wife.”

On the other end, I heard a cup touch a hard surface.

Then she started crying.

“You finally found me,” she said. “I thought this day would never come.”

“Who are you?”

Rose remained silent.

Her breathing gradually steadied.

“I can’t tell you over the phone.”

“You can tell me right now.”

“No.” Her voice remained gentle. “Some truths should not arrive without a face attached to them.”