Beneath the Surface

Elijah sat cross-legged on the faded carpet of his former childhood home; his hands dusty from sorting through the belongings his grandmother had kept in this locked room for decades. His mother’s things were neatly boxed up, untouched since the day of her funeral. He hadn't expected to find anything extraordinary—old clothes, maybe some photographs—but as he sifted through a small velvet pouch tucked inside a shoebox, something cold and metal fell into his palm. 

It was a ring, plain and gold, with a small date engraved on the inside: 

6-12-1990. 

Elijah frowned; he’d never seen it before. After raising his curiosity, his grandmother had insisted that it was his mother’s if it was in there, although she had no clue what the date may have been. Why did his mother keep this so thoughtfully hidden away? A ripple of unease crawled through him as he held it up to the light, examining its smooth, polished surface. 

His grandmother’s voice echoed in his mind. “Your mother never mentioned who your father was, no matter how many times we pressed,” she’d said once, her voice tight, eyes averting. He’d never pushed further, but now, with this ring in his hand, the question that had always lingered on the edges of his thoughts came roaring back: Who was he? 

After more scuffling through the belongings, searching for any clues, Elijah found himself flipping through an old notebook with random pages written on. Amidst the clutter, he saw a colorful page full of doodles and a specific name, thoughtfully drawn all over the page: Darius. There were hearts and squiggles and lines everywhere, even a small drawing of a little baby in the bottom corner. Jackpot.  

Later that night in the quiet of his one-bedroom apartment, Elijah scoured the internet for answers, poring through public records and scanning old newspaper archives. His mother had died when he was barely a year old, her death written off as a tragic accident. But his father—his name, his face—remained a mystery. And then, a breakthrough. 

A post on Facebook posted only a day ago on a memorial page for a man who had died around the same time as Elijah’s mother. The post wasn’t what caught his attention at first—it was the ring on the man’s finger. The same one Elijah now held in his hand. 

The caption above the photo chilled him, "I wish I could have known you, Dad. Not a day goes by that I forget about you." It was posted by a woman named Astrid. 

Elijah stared at the screen, his heart racing. That ring, he zoomed in, that date—6-12-1990—it had to be the same. This wasn’t a coincidence. He felt it in his gut. 

Taking a deep breath, he sent her a message. 

I have so many questions regarding the ring in the picture with your dad...could we meet? *An image of a golden ring with a date inscribed into its polished surface. * 

Astrid’s blood turns cold when she opens a message from a stranger holding her father’s lost wedding ring. Her parents’ anniversary was carved into its flawless gold. She sits in the darkness of her room welcoming a world of confusion to eat away at her head. Could it be a trap? She had no clue why anybody would try to use this against her. Her father was a quiet man who never dabbled in anything mysterious, or at least that’s what she was told.  

However, the fear of the unknown was swallowed quickly by her longing to know the truth, as usual.  

A few days later, Elijah sat across from Astrid in a small café, the ring resting on the table between them like a secret waiting to be revealed. Astrid was still, her dark hair pulled back into a simple braid, but her expression was cautious, guarded.  

“So, you think this ring is the same one that belonged to my father?” she finally asked. Her voice was steady, though her eyes flashed with suspicion. 

Elijah nodded. “I’m not sure how, but it was in my mother’s things. She passed away when I was just a baby, and my father was nowhere to be found, so my grandparents raised me. Nobody knew who he was and I‘ve always wondered. When I saw your post and saw your dad’s ring... I thought that maybe there’s a connection.” 

Astrid hesitated, her fingers tracing the rim of her coffee cup as she visibly processed Elijah’s words. “I never really knew my dad. He died when I was a newborn. My mom told me he struggled with depression for years and…” she paused, her gaze dropping, “…eventually took his own life.” 

Elijah's stomach twisted. “The same night my mother died,” he added quietly. 

“What?” Astrid looked up sharply, her brow furrowing.  

“The dates—of your father’s death and my mother’s. They’re the same.” 

For a moment, silence hung heavy between them. Their worlds seemed to slow down while the cafe around them kept moving. Then, Astrid spoke, “I’m more than willing to help if that’s what you need. You don’t deserve to be left in the dark at my expense; I’d want to know too.”  

Ease and thankfulness washed over Elijah while adrenaline poured through Astrid. Their gaze encompassed a strange familiarity.  

They met again at Astrid’s childhood home, standing in the entryway of a house that smelled faintly of lavender and age. Astrid’s mother had remarried and moved out a few years ago, leaving the place to Astrid along with all her father’s things. There was one spot that held the answers they both sought—the closet where her father’s belongings were stowed. 

Elijah’s pulse quickened as he watched Astrid pull out dusty boxes and pull them to the middle of the room. He felt out of place breathing in the stale air of somebody else’s memories. Together, they began to go through the boxes, each item a piece of a man neither of them knew. Old receipts, notebooks filled with mundane thoughts, and a few photographs. They worked mostly in silence and mentioning anything that might be helpful until Elijah pulled out a book from the bottom corner, breaking its thick, dusty surface with his fingerprints.  

Inside, a journal. 

He handed it to Astrid to read, he felt it was only right.  

The entries were scattered at first—simple notes, thoughts about work, or the day. But the handwriting grew erratic the closer she flipped to the end. 

Astrid turned the pages slowly with trembling fingers. 

Ruth just gave birth yet there’s another somebody out there who could claim my name. 

Everything would collapse if it came forward. I wouldn’t ever know Astrid.  

The next entry, dated the night of his death, sent a shiver down both their spines. 

I’ve got to take care of things sooner rather than later, it will all end for me eventually. 

Elijah’s breath hitched as he opened a balled-up piece of paper that lay in the bottom of a now empty box. He stared at this photograph in disbelief, tears forming in his eyes. Astrid looked at the back of the photo in his hands reading the letter written in blue pen ink out loud. 

 “S?” She whispered as if the truth had already begun to take shape in her mind. Elijah handed the paper to her, revealing the face that had painted the walls of his grandmother’s living room for as long as he could remember.  

“Samantha,” Elijah said, his voice hoarse. “That's my mom.” 

Astrid stared at the image, her hand flying to her mouth. “How did nobody find this?”  

Elijah swallowed hard, the weight of the truth crushing his lungs. “I'm not sure. But I think I know what happened.” Their eyes met and his stomach lurched.  

They sat in stunned silence, the weight of hidden truth settling over them like a suffocating blanket. Elijah could feel the anger rising in his chest, it was so hot in his throat he thought he might explode. Yet it was dulled by something deeper—a sense of helplessness. His father hadn’t only been absent. He had taken his mother from him and his family.  

Denial seized Astrid’s heart and she shook her head, fighting tears that choked the back of her throat. A quiet voice behind the denial assured her it was real, and disgust and disbelief replaced her fading image of the sad man she imagined her dad to be. Everything she’d believed about him, the man who had died a tragic, lonely death, was a lie. Her father hadn’t just been a victim of his own despair. He had been a murderer. 

Later, they sat at Astrid’s kitchen table, the journal silently screaming from the counter. The sun was beginning to set, casting long shadows across the room. 

“What do we do with this?” Astrid asked, her voice hollow. 

Elijah shook his head. “I honestly don’t know. I mean do we tell someone? The police? But it’s been so long. What good would it do now?” 

Astrid stared at the horizon, lost in thought. “Yeah,” she quietly agreed.  

Elijah looked at her. He hated the thought of letting his mother’s death go cold, the truth unspoken. But he also understood the pain it would bring back to the surface. 

“Do we,” he started quietly, “just let it be?” 

Astrid nodded slowly, her eyes shimmering with unshed tears. “I don’t want my mom to know. She’s... happy now. Who would I be to ruin that?” 

Elijah couldn’t argue. And so, in the evening light, they made their choice. This truth may have ignited a buried bond, but its words would be left in the journal they were found in.