The new coordinates pointed to the ground near the crumbling garden wall. Ivy strangled broken stone, weeds tall as his waist. It felt abandoned, forgotten. Andrew stared out the window, imagining his uncle in wartime, hiding something precious in the earth no one would think to disturb.
Still, unease persisted. What if it wasn’t treasure or letters? What if bones lay beneath? His aunt’s death was never fully explained; her fall was whispered about for decades. He saw Henry in his mind—cold, reticent, and haunted. The chest he sought might not absolve him. It might condemn him entirely.