Restlessness drove him back to the deed. He traced the coordinates again, testing variations. The pattern shifted if he adjusted for omissions, for faded words. He scribbled fresh notes, redrawing the garden’s map. Suddenly, a new point emerged, not far from the first—slightly offset, but close enough to matter.
It made sense. Decades had passed since Henry drew the cipher. Land shifted, trees grew, roots spread. The exact spot might have moved, buried deeper under years of neglect. Andrew’s pulse quickened with renewed purpose. He had been close. The mistake was not failure—only time itself rearranging.