The next day, Leo broke down and begged me never to open a red toolbox or show anyone what was inside. I promised—then later found it hidden beneath the shed floorboards. Inside was a faded photo, unfamiliar belongings, and clues tied to a hiker who had vanished months earlier.

Leo hadn’t lost his childhood to imagination. He had lost it to knowledge. And so I chose silence too—becoming another keeper of a secret too heavy for a child, protected only by trust, loyalty, and the quiet presence of a cow who remembers.