One sunny afternoon, I glanced out my window and noticed my elderly neighbour, Mrs. Carter, digging feverishly in her backyard. It seemed odd, as she rarely did anything more strenuous than tending to her flowerbeds. She looked determined, almost frantic, as she shovelled dirt from a deepening hole. I debated going over to check on her but hesitated, not wanting to intrude.
Minutes later, I saw her stumble, clutch her chest, and collapse beside the hole. Alarmed, I ran to her yard and knelt to check on her. She was unconscious but breathing. I quickly called 911 and waited anxiously for help to arrive. While I stayed by her side, my eyes wandered to the hole she had been digging. What I saw made me gasp.
Partially buried in the dirt was an old, rusted metal box. It had a heavy padlock and appeared ancient, as if it had been hidden for decades. The box bore strange engravings, and next to it was a weathered, yellowed envelope tied with string. My curiosity burned, but I didn’t touch anything, focusing instead on Mrs. Carter’s wellbeing.
The paramedics arrived shortly after and took Mrs. Carter to the hospital. I couldn’t help but wonder what secrets the box held—and why she had been so desperate to unearth it.
