“It can’t be,” I said. The voice rang out again from the back. “Andrew… don’t take another step if you’re coming here to hurt her.” My body went limp. It was my father. Ralph. The man whose photograph my mother had kept face down for thirty years. The man she only ever spoke of by saying, “He died because he didn’t know how to be responsible.” The man I brought flowers to every Veterans Day at a nameless grave in the city cemetery, because my mother swore there was nothing left of him. But there was his voice. Older. Hoarser. Alive. I shoved some boxes aside and moved down the narrow passage. The walls were damp, made of old stone—like those hidden tunnels in Savannah people mention in hushed tones, saying they connected old mansions, churches, and family secrets that no one ever wanted to face in a mirror. My mother grabbed my arm. “Don’t go in, son.” For the first time, her hand didn’t feel protective. It felt like a claw. “Let go of me.” “Andrew, please. That man destroyed us.” “I heard his voice.” She started to cry. But this time, her tears arrived too late. I broke free and kept going.