For six years, I lived without answers. Then my daughter found her father’s old phone.

My heart started pounding.

I took it from her.

It was Daniel’s old phone.

The one he’d told me he’d lost nearly a year before the fishing trip.

We’d searched the car.

The garage.

The couch.

The junk drawers.

Eventually, we bought him another.

“Where was this?”

“Bottom of the electronics bin,” Sophie said.

I flipped the phone over.

It was completely dead.

Sophie found a matching charger and plugged it in.

She sat beside it like she was waiting for a pulse.

“Mom, what if there are pictures?”

I froze.

“Probably old ones.”

“What if there are videos? Voice notes?”

I didn’t answer.

The phone finally powered on.

It automatically connected to our home Wi-Fi.

A few minutes later, old photos began filling the gallery.

Then Sophie opened it.

I couldn’t watch.

Not yet.

So I left her at the table and went upstairs.

A few minutes later, I heard her running.