He scrawled numbers in the margins, counting every third word, then every fifth, then mapping phrases by repetition. At first, it yielded nothing. Then something shifted: the placements aligned, sketching coordinates, as if Henry had hidden directions in plain sight. Andrew’s pulse quickened. The deed wasn’t legal prose—it was a cipher!
Excitement battled dread. He marked the garden sketch, overlaying Henry’s coordinates onto faded blueprints of the grounds. One particular spot glowed with eerie certainty. It was a neglected patch near a crooked oak, half-swallowed by weeds. Andrew stared at it, whispering, “What is your secret, Uncle?”