He crouched and brushed away soil, easing the pouch free. Inside lay a weathered photograph: a young man in a heavy coat, gripping a canvas satchel beside a cargo truck. Two other men stood behind him; one face was violently scratched out. A folded scrap of Italian writing accompanied it.
Walter flattened the fragile note under the porch light. Most of the ink had run, but one line remained intact enough to read: “If I do not return, tell my family I tried.” The words sent a chill through him. This wasn’t random. Someone buried these things deliberately, with urgency.