I turned the key in unit 118 and rolled up the door, my hands shaking with dread, and the light fell on something magnificent: a carousel horse, hand-carved and half-painted, gleaming even in the dim light, and around it, a whole workshop of carving tools and paint and sketches.
I stood in that doorway with my hand over my mouth.
The walls were covered in photographs of children, dozens of them, sick children, some bald from treatment, all of them beaming beside carved animals like this one.
The little one the desk girl mentioned was a young volunteer, a girl of about twelve named Sophie, and she and Harold had been secretly carving carousel animals together for years, to donate to the childrens hospital, where a real carousel was being built for the sick children.
Harold, it turned out, had a gift for woodcarving I never fully knew, and a heart bigger than I understood. Years ago he had learned the childrens hospital was building a carousel for its young patients, and he had quietly volunteered to carve the animals, one by one, in this secret workshop.
And Sophie, the little one, was a girl whose own life had been saved at that hospital as a small child, and who came every Saturday to help Harold carve, the two of them making beautiful animals for children who were suffering the way she once had.
His letter read: Old girl, if you found my workshop, then meet my carousel. Every animal goes to the childrens hospital, for the little ones fighting so hard. Sophie helps me, bless her, a survivor herself, giving back. I kept it quiet because charity should not be loud. There are three animals left to finish. Please, see that they get done and delivered. Those children have waited long enough for something joyful.
I wept in that unit. Him and the little one. My Harold had spent his Saturdays carving joy for dying children, with a girl who had once been one of them.
I found Sophie, and together we finished Harolds last three animals, her small hands guiding mine. And we delivered the whole carousel to the childrens hospital.
It runs now, in the hospital atrium. Sick children ride Harolds hand-carved horses and lions and swans, laughing, forgetting their pain for a few turns. Sophie volunteers there still. And a little brass plaque names the man who carved them: Harold, with love.
My daughter still did not know why her father disappeared on Saturdays. Now she does. She took her own children to ride Grandpas carousel. Him and the little one made something that will bring joy to sick children for generations. I am so proud I could burst. My Harold. My good, secret, generous Harold.