The Bed That Was Too Neat
The next morning, the house was silent.
Too silent.
I woke up at 6:30 AM, ready to wake him up early.
We were going to look for “real” jobs today.
I was going to drive him to the industrial park myself.
“Leo! Up and at ’em!” I shouted, banging on the basement door.
No answer.
I pushed the door open.
The room was spotless.
The piles of laundry were gone.
The blinds were open.
The bed was made—military tight.
And on the pillow, there was his phone.
And a folded piece of notebook paper.
A cold shiver—sharper than any winter wind—shot down my spine.
“Leo?”
I checked the bathroom.
Empty.
The backyard.
Empty.
The garage.
Empty.
My old pickup truck was gone.
I ran back to the room and grabbed the note.
My hands were shaking so hard I almost ripped the paper.
It began with one word:
Dad,
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