Julian Whitmore had cried only twice in his adult life.

The first time was when his father died.

The second was beside Amelia's hospital bed, when the doctor told him there was nothing more they could do.

Now he sat in a small apartment, holding a blue wooden box, unable to stop tears from falling onto his expensive trousers.

Rosa did not try to comfort him with reassuring words.

She waited.

After several minutes, Julian wiped his face.

"May I open it?"

Rosa nodded.

Inside the box lay a folded baby blanket, a small stuffed rabbit with one crooked ear, several photographs, a flash drive, and a bundle of envelopes tied together with pale ribbon.

Julian lifted the rabbit.

He remembered it.

Amelia had bought it from a street market during their honeymoon.

When Noah was born, she placed it beside his crib.

Noah had carried it everywhere until the day of her funeral.

Julian frowned.

"Where has this been?"

"Amelia gave it to me when she was preparing the box."

"He used to sleep with it."

"I know."

Julian gently pressed the rabbit's worn fur between his fingers.

"He's been looking for it."

Rosa's face tightened.

"Then perhaps he should have had it eight months ago."

The words were quiet.

They hurt more than an accusation.

Julian set the rabbit down.

He noticed that the envelopes bore different labels.

For Noah, when he misses my voice.

For Noah, when he asks where I went.

For Noah, on his fifth birthday.

For Noah, when he learns to ride a bicycle.

And one at the bottom:

For Julian, when he is ready to listen.

Julian stared at his name.

"She really believed I wouldn't listen?"

Rosa answered gently.

"She believed you would need time."

He lifted the envelope.

The handwriting was unmistakable.

Amelia's letters had always slanted slightly to the right. She put tiny loops in her lowercase letters and frequently forgot to dot her i's.

He had once teased her about it.

She had told him that perfection was boring.

Now even the uneven handwriting felt precious.

Julian turned the envelope over.

It was sealed.

He looked at Rosa.

"Should I read it?"

"That's a decision only you can make."

Julian set it aside.

He wasn't ready.

Instead, he picked up a photograph.

It showed Amelia sitting on the floor of Noah's nursery, wearing faded jeans and one of Julian's old college sweatshirts.

Her hair was tied messily behind her head.

No makeup.

No jewelry.

No carefully arranged lighting.

She was laughing as baby Noah attempted to place a toy crown on her head.

Julian remembered the day.

He had been in London.

Amelia had sent him the picture.

His reply had been two words.

Very cute.

Julian closed his eyes.

How many moments had he reduced to two words?

How many small pieces of his son's childhood had passed while he sat in conference rooms?

Rosa watched him study the photograph.

"Amelia worried that people would remember her as a billionaire's wife instead of Noah's mother."

Julian opened his eyes.

"That's ridiculous."

"Is it?"

Rosa gestured toward the photograph.

"How many pictures of her are displayed in your son's bedroom?"

Julian thought about the nursery.

There was one framed portrait on a shelf.

Amelia wore an elegant evening gown, her hair perfectly styled.

It had been taken at a charity gala.

Noah rarely looked at it.

But the photograph in Julian's hand showed the woman who had crawled around on the floor pretending to be a lion.

The woman who sang nonsense songs while preparing breakfast.

The woman who allowed her little boy to fall asleep against her shoulder, even when it made her arm ache.

Perhaps that was the mother Noah was desperately trying to remember.

Julian placed the picture back inside the box.

"Why didn't Amelia leave these things with me?"

Rosa took a moment before answering.

"Some she did."

Julian looked up.

"What?"

"The blue box was always meant to come to Noah. The letters were supposed to come directly to your family office."

She pointed toward the ribbon-tied envelopes.

"These are the few she specifically asked me to keep until you came personally."

"Why?"

"Because she wanted to know someone was still willing to come looking."

Julian stared at her.

Rosa continued.

"She was frightened, Julian. Not only of dying. She was frightened that Noah would grow up surrounded by employees but without anyone who knew how to talk about her."

Julian swallowed.

"I thought not talking about Amelia would help him move on."

"He's three years old."

"I know."

"Then understand what that means. He doesn't know why she disappeared. When adults change the subject, he thinks he's asked something wrong."

Julian remembered Noah's desperate eyes.

Daddy, please bring Mommy.

He had heard those words hundreds of times.

He had never stopped to consider what his son believed they meant.

"There's something else," Rosa said.

She removed a small notebook from the box.

Inside were notes written in Amelia's handwriting.

One page contained instructions for Noah's bedtime routine.

Warm milk if he asks for it. Blue blanket. Rabbit beside the pillow. Sing slowly, even if he seems asleep.

On another page was a sentence underlined twice.

Please don't let strangers carry him away when he's crying. Get down to his level and tell him where he's going first.

Julian's breath caught.

He saw Daniel reaching for Noah.

He saw the bite.

He saw the boy's terrified face.

"How did she know?"

Rosa's expression became serious.

"Because it happened before."

Julian looked up sharply.

"What happened before?"

Rosa hesitated.

"During Amelia's final hospital stay, Noah was frightened when the staff needed to take her for treatment. He tried to follow her. Someone picked him up and carried him out while he screamed."

Julian stared at her.

"Who?"

"I wasn't there that afternoon. But Amelia told me afterward. She said Noah had started biting whenever he thought someone was taking him away from her."

Julian sat completely still.

His son's behavior had not begun at the yacht dinner.

It had begun when the little boy thought he was losing his mother.

And nobody had explained what was happening.

Julian's phone vibrated.

A message from Daniel.

Sir, I found the records you asked for. Victor didn't just withhold the letters.

Another message appeared.

He ordered the nursery staff to remove Amelia's personal belongings after the funeral.

Julian slowly looked at the stuffed rabbit.

Then at the photographs.

Then at the letters.

His phone vibrated again.

There's more. The order says Noah was not to be given any reminders of Mrs. Whitmore without Mr. Hale's approval.

Julian felt something colder than anger settle in his chest.

Victor had not merely hidden a few letters.

He had systematically removed a little boy's memories of his mother.

And Julian had trusted him enough never to question it.