He plunged the spade in, dirt giving with surprising ease. This time the rhythm felt different—hollow and expectant. The soil smelled richer, loamier, untouched by decades of roots. Each thrust carried a thrum of certainty, as though Henry’s ghost guided his hands at last. Andrew’s anticipation grew with every shovelful.
Still, doubt gnawed. What if he unearthed something worse? The thought twisted in his stomach. He saw flashes of his aunt’s broken form, Henry’s pale face at her funeral, villagers whispering. He feared the chest he sought might prove something sinister, not mystery—an answer that would shatter his family’s fragile narrative forever.