Exhaustion forced him to stop. He left the chest in the hall, promising himself that tomorrow he would finish. That night, sleep tormented him. He dreamt of corridors filled with locked doors, each marked with his uncle’s initials. One door rattled violently, and he woke before it burst open.
Morning sunlight revealed the chest exactly where he had left it. Relief and dread tangled in his chest. He dragged it into the study, setting it near the fireplace where Henry’s books still lined the shelves. The chest seemed to belong here, as though returning to its rightful place.