No crowd.
No county inspector.
No ceremony.
Just five people standing under an old apple tree.
Dad measured from the trunk.
Six feet east.
Three north.
Then he pushed the shovel into the soil.
After two attempts, Claire took it from him.
“Grandpa.”
He surrendered without argument.
That alone told me how nervous he was.
Twenty minutes later, the shovel struck metal.
Claire froze.
I knelt beside her.
Together we cleared away the earth.
The box was small.
Tin.
Wrapped in what remained of oilcloth.
Dad sat on an overturned bucket while Claire lifted it from the ground.
No one spoke.
The latch had rusted shut.
Brent went home for tools.
When he returned, Dad worked the hinge carefully.
The lid opened.
Inside were several objects protected in wax paper.
A hospital bracelet.
A baby’s knitted cap.
A photograph.
A folded document.
And a letter.
Claire touched the bracelet first.
