The shovel bit deep, soil crumbling away in stubborn clumps. Hours passed, arms trembling, sweat dripping into his eyes. He paused only to stretch aching muscles. But the hole revealed nothing—no chest, no metal, just endless earth. Frustration flared. Had Henry crafted a puzzle with no solution?
He sat on the wall, chest heaving, staring at the half-dug pit. The garden mocked him, whispering in rustling leaves. He heard his father’s voice, sharp and dismissive: Henry always loved his games. He’d drive himself mad with puzzles nobody else could understand. Was Andrew now following the same path?