The safe was not empty. Everything inside had been arranged carefully, almost lovingly, as if someone had packed away a lifetime. There were yellowed envelopes tied with twine, a velvet pouch the color of midnight, a brass key with a worn tag, and a small tin wrapped in faded floral cloth. Each item looked untouched for decades.

He lifted them out one by one, lining them up neatly on the workbench. His hands trembled as he read the dates on the envelopes: 1979, 1983, 1986. The corner of an old photograph peeked out from one, showing two people on a porch, their faces turned away. The tag on the brass key had almost lost its writing, just the faint outline of letters that could have once spelled a bank name or locker number. The longer Nate stared, the more the garage seemed to close in around him, heavy with history.