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.
Then I saw the initials.
T. M.
Thomas Miller.
My grandfather.
I stopped breathing.
My grandfather had been dead for twenty-two years.
He had raised me almost as much as my parents did.
He taught me to fish.
To repair fence posts.
To drive an old truck.
To save coins in jars.
To never sign papers without reading them.
I had failed at that last lesson more than once.
I touched the initials.
Then footsteps sounded outside.
I froze.
Someone was approaching the cave.
I stood quickly.
I grabbed a thick stick.
The footsteps came closer.
Then a dog entered.
The same brown stray.
White paw.
It stopped.
