Inside the house, he gathered tools: hammer, chisel, crowbar. Laying them beside the chest felt like preparing for surgery. He knelt again, sweat beading despite the chill. His hand trembled as he gripped the hammer, poised to strike. But he hesitated, gripped by the weight of anticipation.
He struck once. The iron band groaned, dust rising. He struck again, harder, metal shrieking in protest. The lock trembled but held. Andrew’s arms shook with the effort. He paused, chest heaving, staring into the pit of rust as though it might swallow him whole. It became clear that this would be more than a day’s work.