Her hand closed around a hard object and eased it out. In her palm lay a wooden horse, no bigger than Emma’s favourite plastic figures. Its paint had mostly flaked away, leaving only a faint suggestion of once‑bright color at the mane. One ear was chipped, the edges smoothed by long‑ago handling.
She turned it over, heart beating faster. On the underside, someone had scratched initials into the wood—two letters, barely legible. The style of carving, the wear, and the primitive paintwork all spoke of another time. This wasn’t a dropped modern toy. It belonged to whoever had used that space before the wall was sealed.