It was a small brass key with a rectangular metal tag stamped 214. I recognized it because Dad had carried an identical key ring during the final weeks of his life. Twice, I had heard Mom ask what locker he kept visiting after work. Dad always brushed her off and said it contained “old job paperwork.” Standing inside that ballroom, I suddenly remembered something else: the suit had been the last one he wore before he stopped working.
The next morning, Mom and I searched his desk until we found a receipt for a storage facility near the industrial complex where Dad had worked as a maintenance supervisor. Locker 214 was still paid through the end of the year. Inside were two boxes containing photographs, safety reports, emails, and copies of complaints Dad had submitted about renovation work taking place inside one of the older buildings.
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