When I lifted it, my hands slipped.
The candlestick crashed against the floorboards.
And the sound changed everything.
It was hollow.
Not rotten.
Not weak.
Hidden.
My entire body went cold.
I dropped to my knees and pressed my fingers across the wooden floor until I felt it:
A straight seam beneath the dirt.
Someone had built a compartment under the cabin.
At this point, social media exploded completely.
People began theorizing wildly.
Money.
Gold.
Evidence.
A second will.
Secret affairs.
Hidden crimes.
The hashtags connected to the story accumulated millions of interactions within forty-eight hours.
Even people who never cared about inheritance scandals became addicted to the mystery.
Because deep down, everyone fears the same thing:
That the people closest to them may already be planning life after their death.
I dug my nails into the edge of the floorboard until splinters cut my fingers.
Finally, it lifted.
Inside was a metal box wrapped in oilcloth.
