I yanked the drawer hard, and it flew out, spilling pens and paperclips everywhere.
That’s when I saw it. Taped to the back of the drawer space, hidden from plain sight, was a thick red envelope.
It looked old. The tape was yellowed and brittle.

I peeled it off carefully. On the front, in my dad’s handwriting, it just said: “For Michael. Open when I’m gone.”
My hands were shaking. Was this a letter? A will? Or maybe just more bad news?
I sat on the floor and sliced it open. Inside was a single, crisp document with a gold seal at the top.
