The contractor, Harris, arrived with a skeptical look. “Old houses have hollow spots, ma’am,” he said. But when he used a thermal camera on the wall, his expression shifted to one of pure confusion.
“There’s something metallic in there,” he muttered. He carefully cut a small pilot hole into the plaster. As the saw bit into the material, a puff of stale, cedar-scented air escaped—air that hadn’t been breathed in decades.
Lucy held a flashlight to the hole. Her light reflected off the glint of rusted metal and the soft texture of old fabric. She reached in, her fingers brushing against something cold.
She pulled it out slowly. It was a small wooden toy horse, its paint worn away by the touch of a child’s hand. But it was what lay further back in the darkness that made her heart stop.
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