Scarlett’s POV
The box creaked as I lifted the lid.
Inside, instead of documents or photos, was a thin cloth bundle wrapped in yellowed fabric and tied with string. My breath caught. The string was fragile, already fraying, but intact. I ran a gloved finger over the knot, hesitating. Something about it felt ceremonial, like this had been packed with great care a long time ago, and never meant to be opened by just anyone.
Only by me.
I leaned in closer, peering at the faded symbol etched into the wooden box’s underside.
Same sigil.
The loop with the rising tail, carved with a shaky hand.
Just like Charles’s journal.
Just like the bottom of that old, missing box I found at the vineyard.
The air seemed heavier in the room. As if the walls remembered too much.
I took a breath, about
