The letter had told him exactly what to do; he reached into the inside pocket of his jacket and took it out, laying it on the leather cushioned surface. His father’s precise handwriting echoed his voice: clipped, neat sentences mirrored in his upright, perfectly formed words. He read the words again, making sure he had them just right:
Son, – not by name, he noticed – this is not my last will and testament. These are, however, my last wishes. At this time, as I set pen to paper, I know my time is limited. I cannot explain myself to you; I understand that a barrier exists between us, irrefutable and immovable. That my limited time nears its end only adds to the frustration. All that I can state is that you are not, as you believe, utterly unsupported; you are, and will always be, my proudest legacy. I enclose a key, you must use it. The truth lies secure in my desk. It’s yours.
He reached again, taking the key from his pocket, rolling it between his finger and thumb. A key, secretly bequeathed by a man who remained closed to him.
He tried the top drawer, no; next drawer, click.
The Thoughts that Colin has. 