“My father brought me here once.”
“You remember?” I asked.
“Barely.”
He touched the door.
“I thought I dreamed it.”
Inside, we found stacks of old timber ruined by time, rusted equipment, and shelves containing jars of nails.
On the far wall were initials carved into a beam.
M.R.
Dad ran his fingers over them.
“His.”
Underneath, someone had carved another line.
MAKE ROOM AT THE TABLE.
Mom smiled faintly.
“He liked sayings.”
“He liked telling other people what to do,” Dad said.
“He was your father.”
“Exactly.”
We spent two hours exploring the property.
There was no treasure.
No hidden fortune.
But the land itself was peaceful.
A seasonal creek crossed the back acreage.
Oak trees shaded one ridge.
The old road offered enough access that, according to Inez, the property might have practical value.
Derek stood in the surviving shed for a long time.
“What are you thinking?” I asked.
