My parents came rushing out behind me, flipping on the porch light.
The harsh yellow glare illuminated Daniel standing near the edge of the dark backyard, staring blankly toward the dense treeline that bordered my family’s property.
“Daniel!” I cried, running down the steps and grabbing his arm. “What happened? What did you see?!”
His skin was clammy, and his eyes were wide, unblinking, and fixed on the shadows.
“The… the old stone well,” Daniel stammered, his teeth chattering uncontrollably as he pointed a shaking finger into the darkness. “There’s a silver box sitting on the edge of it.”
My dad frowned, stepping forward with a heavy flashlight. “The old well? Daniel, son, that well was capped off twenty years ago before we even built the garden. There’s nothing down there.”
“I saw the initials!” Daniel shouted, his voice cracking into a panic-stricken sob. “I saw the initial engraved on the lock! It’s her initials, Helen!”
I froze. Daniel was an orphan.
He had lost his mother when he was just seven years old in a sudden, unexplained hit-and-run that police never solved. He rarely spoke about her, except to say she had gone missing three days before her body was found.
My dad shone the flashlight beam toward the treeline.
There, resting directly on the stone coping of the ancient well, was a small, tarnished metal box.
Engraved on the lid, reflecting the beam of light, were two crisp letters: E.V.—Evelyn Vance, Daniel’s mother.
