I walked toward it slowly. My boots crunched on the dirt floor. I reached out and touched the surface of the desk. My fingers left trails in the dust. There was a drawer at the front, a small brass handle.
I hesitated for just a moment.
And then I pulled it open.
The door creaked behind me as the wind pushed it slightly. Sunlight streamed through the dusty shelves and old pots, and there in the corner was a wooden desk I had never seen before.
I had been married to Brenda for 37 years.
I thought I knew everything about her.
I was wrong.
The inside of the shed was darker than I expected. Even with the door open, the sunlight only reached so far. The air was thick and stale, like no one had breathed in here for decades. I took a step forward, and the floorboards creaked beneath my boots. I looked around slowly.
Shelves lined both walls, covered in things I recognized. Old ceramic pots cracked and chipped. Rusted gardening tools. Bags of soil that had hardened into stone. A watering can with a broken handle. Everything looked forgotten, abandoned.
But none of it explained why Brenda had kept me out of here for so long.
I moved deeper into the shed, my eyes adjusting to the dim light.
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