Encrypted hearts

ChapterTwo

The morning sun felt strangely different today—warmer, softer, as though it was trying to soothe my broken spirit. Healing had begun, but only half heartedly. Still, I woke with more strength than I’d carried since Papa’s death.

With summer vacation plans crushed, no thanks to our mysterious murderer whose identity the police still hadn’t uncovered, I decided to finally do some work.

Papa’s study.

Everything in that room carried his scent, his memory. Every chair, every paperweight, even the fading curtains. Clearing it out would hurt, but maybe it was time.

I connected my phone to the Bluetooth speaker and played one of Papa’s favorite songs. The house filled with the soulful voice—“Still the one I run to, the only one I dream of…”

I sank into his wide study chair, eyes closed, letting the lyrics wrap around me like a memory. I pictured his smile, the way he’d tap his fingers against the desk when lost in thought. My chest ached, but I let the music play twice, thrice, before dragging myself toward my laptop.

The condolences had piled up—emails, messages, pings from the Hack Angels. I owed them replies. I owed Papa some strength.

Clearing the study, however, was more daunting than I imagined. My plan was simple: move things down to the garage, start packing, maybe think of selling the house later. But Papa’s books alone could fill a library. He was old-fashioned like that—pages over pixels.

I sorted the books into boxes by subject—law, politics, philosophy, history—and messaged Mr. Daniels, the town bookstore manager who’d been close to Papa:

Papa’s books won’t read themselves anymore. Please come pick them up and put them to good use.

I hesitated over the cabinets last. That’s where Papa kept his journals, work files, fragments of old cases. When I opened them, my stomach clenched. The inside was… messy. Too messy. Drawers were pulled out, papers shuffled, like someone had already searched through them.

Carefully, I pulled everything out—case notes, letters, yellowing documents. His handwriting stared back at me: neat, elegant cursive, always with sharp loops and tidy margins. A lump rose in my throat.

Then I saw it.

A small piece of cloth folded unusually at the bottom of the cabinet.

Curiosity prickled my skin. I reached for it, unwrapped it, and froze.

A flash drive.

And a handwritten note.

My Princess Elena, this is for you.

My breath hitched. My hands trembled. Why didn’t Papa leave this with his lawyer? Why hide it here, in the middle of chaos? Unless… unless it contained something someone didn’t want me to find.

I hurried back to my desk, plugged it into my laptop, and typed in the only password Papa had ever trusted—Mama’s name. Adela.

The screen burst alive with code. Long strings of numbers, encryption patterns, layers upon layers of locked files. My heart pounded. Papa… was a coder?

I blinked, rubbed my eyes. This couldn’t be real. He’d never mentioned it. But there it was—line after line of intense encryption, shifting like a puzzle only meant for me.

“I need help,” I whispered to myself. My temples ached already. Without thinking, I hit video call.

Ini’s face lit up the screen. “Hey, Elena. You look… different today. Not gloomy for once.”

“I found something,” I rushed out. "From Papa. Codes. You need to see this."

Her eyes widened. “What? Papa was into cyber stuff? No way! Girl, this explains everything. Maybe that’s where your skills came from. Wow. We should tell the other Angels.”

I shook my head firmly. “No. Not yet. This stays between us.”

We dove into the files together, my laptop screen glowing with riddles of numbers and firewalls. Every time I broke through one, another slammed down. It was like Papa wanted me to work for the truth.

Then—knock.

Sharp. Repeated. Loud.

My head snapped toward the door. The knocking didn’t stop. I peered out the window cautiously.

My uncle. Mr. Smith.

He stood there, stiff, unreadable. Papa’s half-brother. The one who barely showed up at the funeral, hovering in the shadows, detached. What was he doing here now?

I opened the door, schooling my face into calm. “Uncle.”

“Elena.” His voice was smooth, measured. I was nearby and thought I should check in. How are you holding up?”

I forced a small smile. “I’m… trying. Some days are harder than others.”

“That’s expected.” His gaze softened, or seemed to. “Your father’s death has left a hole for all of us. I know I wasn’t… very present at the funeral. Crowds never suited me. But I wanted you to know, you’re not alone in this.”

“Thank you,” I murmured, unsure what else to say.

He stepped inside, his eyes flickering briefly toward the study before returning to me. “This house must feel enormous now. Quiet, too quiet.”

“Too quiet,” I admitted, folding my arms. “I’ve been keeping busy. Sorting through Papa’s things."

He nodded slowly, his expression unreadable. “That must be difficult, but necessary. Sometimes, letting go of the physical things helps the heart mend.”

I swallowed, thinking of the flash drive hidden in plain sight. “Some things I’m not ready to let go of yet.”

“Understandable.” His voice was soft, almost kind. He placed a hand lightly on my shoulder. “Take your time. There’s no rush.”

We sat in silence for a moment. He asked about my studies, about the Angels, about whether I planned to sell the house. Ordinary questions. Caring questions. Nothing more.

And yet… something about the way his eyes lingered on the desk, just for a breath too long, made me uneasy.

Finally, he rose to leave. “Remember, Elena, if you need anything, anything at all, I’m just a call away.”

I nodded, smiling politely as I closed the door behind him.

Only when his footsteps faded did I turn back to the laptop. The flash drive glowed faintly in the port, as though alive.

And in that moment, I knew: Papa hadn’t left me memories. He’d left me a mission.

I tightened my grip on the laptop. Whatever Papa hid here, it wasn’t meant to be easy—and it wasn’t meant to be shared. Not yet.