The bank’s interior was hushed, the kind of quiet that made every rustle of paper seem loud. I sat in a chair across from the bank manager’s desk, the folder heavy in my hands. I opened it carefully, revealing a stack of printed statements. “I’m here to discuss my father’s account,” I said, my voice steady. The manager nodded, her practiced smile unwavering. “Of course, let’s take a look.”

She clicked through her screen, the soft glow reflecting off her glasses. My eyes drifted to a particular statement from May 15th. “There’s a $7,000 withdrawal here that seems off,” I pointed out, tapping the paper lightly with my finger. Her eyes glanced at the screen, then back at me. “Routine expenses, perhaps?” she suggested, her tone even.

I nodded slightly, though internally, my thoughts spun. I knew my father’s financial habits, and this didn’t fit. The room felt a degree cooler, the air sharpened by the realization that something was amiss. I shifted the folder on my lap, the papers whispering secrets I hadn’t yet uncovered. The bank manager continued talking, but her words slipped past me as I focused on the discrepancies.

Outside, the afternoon sun filtered through the high windows, casting long shadows on the floor. I felt those shadows creeping into my mind, darkening the edges of what I thought I knew about my father’s finances. With the folder in hand, I was determined to follow this thread, wherever it might lead.

As the meeting wound down, the manager offered a polite smile, her gaze steady. I returned it with a nod, gathering my things. “Thank you for your time,” I said, standing up. “I’ll be in touch if I have more questions.” Her nod was a smooth acknowledgment, but I couldn’t shake the feeling that I was only scratching the surface of something much larger.

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