I returned to the master bedroom, stood before the tapestry-draped closet. Lifting the fabric, the wooden drawer appeared. The key slid in tightly; a slight wiggle seated it. My right hand gripped the key, my left braced the drawer edge. I paused, knowing I crossed a line. Opening this would shatter the polite, distant neighbor dynamic forever. Money? Jewelry? Private letters? Nothing? Yet intuition coiled like cold wire in my gut. Snowball's wary eyes, the poetry book's marked page, the stranger's smile in the photograph – I needed an answer. Even a painful one. I took a breath, twisted my wrist right. A soft *click*. The lock released.
The Discovery
I pulled the drawer open. No cat. Only neatly stacked file folders, paper edges yellowed. The top folder bore the label of a familiar hospital – St. Joseph's Medical Center. Beneath it, handwritten: Michael Carter. My full name. I lifted the file. The first page listed my birth date, last four digits of my SSN, my old address. Diagnosis Summary: Multiple compound fractures following MVA. Moderate concussion. Recommended psychological follow-up. My fingers chilled. I turned pages. Detailed treatment records. Surgical notes. A psychological assessment detailing nightmares, fear of sudden noises, driving avoidance – details *I'd* forgotten. The papers rustled in my trembling hands. I looked up at the tapestry's twisted patterns, dizzy.
Initial Shock
I slid down the wardrobe, sitting on the floor. Medical records scattered around my legs. I stared at the open, empty drawer, then at the papers. Real. Not a hallucination. Sophia, my new neighbor, a retired records clerk, possessed my most private adolescent medical history. Why? How? Why keep it? Locked away? Questions detonated, unanswered. Only the cold, factual paper proved the absurdity. How long did I sit? Unclear. Until soft footsteps – Snowball emerged from the far side of the bed, sat nearby, watching me. His blue eyes held no fear now, only a strange, calm regard. Then he turned and left.
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