He sat opposite it, glass of whiskey in hand, watching the firelight flicker against its battered wood. He imagined Henry sitting here too, guarding it night after night, never daring to open it himself. Perhaps he’d left it for Andrew not to inherit wealth, but to inherit silence.
But Andrew wasn’t built for silence. The chest consumed him, searing into every thought. He leaned forward, tracing the faint initials carved into the lid. His uncle’s hand, unmistakable. Whatever lay inside, Henry had wanted it preserved. Andrew clenched the crowbar tighter, whispering, “Alright, Uncle. Let’s see your truth.”