Then it happened.
Clunk.
The sound sent a chill through me. I froze.
It wasn’t a root. It wasn’t a rock.
Heart pounding, I leaned in and started clearing the dirt with my hands, brushing it aside until I could see what was hidden beneath the rosebush.
My fingers scraped something. Wood? No… metal.
My breath caught in my throat as I realized that this wasn’t just a plant Grandma wanted moved. She had buried something.
A grandma standing near the plants | Source: Pexels
The moment I brushed away the last of the dirt and saw the edge of that rusted iron box, my breath caught. It was wedged tightly into the soil, larger than any tin I had imagined. I dropped the spade and leaned in, heart thudding in my chest. My gloves were slick with sweat as I dug around the sides until I could finally pull the box free.
It was heavier than it looked and crusted with age. A thick, corroded clasp sealed it shut. I sat back on my heels, gripping the lock with both hands, trying to pry it open. My palms ached from the effort, but I refused to stop.
A small rusted iron box lying on the soil in a home garden | Source: Midjourney
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