A cave did not sound frightening anymore.
Not after prison.
Not after sleeping behind a church.
A cave sounded private.
So I climbed.
The first hour nearly broke me.
My body had been conditioned by years of prison routines.
But not mountain trails.
My feet hurt.
My shoulders hurt.
I stopped often.
The higher I went, the more the town disappeared behind trees.
Eventually, I reached the old quarry road.
Then the dry creek.
Then a cluster of tall rocks.
I almost gave up.
Then I saw brush covering a dark gap in the hillside.
The entrance.
I pushed branches aside.
Cold air touched my face.
I stepped inside.
At first, I could see almost nothing.
Then my eyes adjusted.
The cave was deeper than I expected.
The floor near the entrance was mostly dry.
There were black marks on one wall.
Old fire stains.
Someone had been there before.
Maybe years ago.
Maybe decades.
I dropped my bag.
Then sat against the wall.
For the first time since leaving prison, I had something that felt like shelter.
It was not a home.
But it had walls.
A roof.
Privacy.
And nobody could tell me I did not belong there.
I spent the morning gathering dry sticks.
I found stones.
I made a small fire near the entrance.
Prison had taught me many useless things.
But my grandfather had taught me how to build a fire when I was a child.
The flames were small.
Still, they felt like luxury.
I ate the second half of the banana.
Then the crackers.
I drank carefully.
Water mattered.
By afternoon, I began clearing a flat area to sleep.
That was when I moved the rock.
It sat near the back wall.
Flat.
Wide.
I tried to shift it.
It scraped across the ground.
Then I heard something.
A hollow sound.
I stopped.
Tapped the stone with my knuckles.
Hollow.
I tapped again.
The echo came back.
My heart started beating faster.
I knelt.
There was loose dirt near the edge.
I dug with my fingers.
At first, nothing.
Then more dirt.
Then a piece of rotted cloth.
I pulled harder.
My fingernails split.
Skin tore.
I did not stop.
Eventually, my fingers hit something solid.
Wood.
I cleared more dirt.
A small box appeared.
Maybe eighteen inches long.
Wrapped in decayed fabric.
The metal latch was rusted.
The lid had darkened with age.
