At my father’s graveside service, while my husband moved through the crowd thanking people in that calm, trustworthy voice everyone believed, the gravedigger quietly stopped me, made sure no one was listening, and told me the coffin being buried beneath all those flowers was empty—then handed me a brass key and said I needed to get to room 20 before my husband started asking questions. I thought the shock of the funeral was making the whole thing feel distorted, right up until I unlocked that storage unit and found not dust-covered furniture or family junk, but a lamp still plugged in, neatly tabbed file boxes, a letter with my name on it, and a stack of documents topped by a photo of the man who had already started texting me one simple question: “Where are you?”