He turned back to the rest of the contents: scraps of fabric, brittle paper, rusted odds and ends. And then he saw them. A key with a tarnished brass head, attached to a tag scrawled with an address. Beside it, a photograph, half torn, showing a couple standing close together, their faces lit with warmth and sunlight.
Ethan held the key between his fingers, reading the faint, smudged address. The letters didn’t match anywhere he knew in town. He felt the weight of it settle into him, heavier than the bag itself. This wasn’t just junk. These were breadcrumbs—left behind by someone who had once called this place home.