I walk home fast, sky turning violet. Lily waits on the porch.
“You came back!” she blurts.
“I brought treasure,” I say, handing her the bread.
That night, I count the money. Seeds. Maybe tools. Maybe a solar lamp one day.
The days fall into rhythm. Morning: clear weeds. Midday: boil water, feed Lily. Afternoon: work for Mr. Jenkins. Night: study.
In the old house, I find moldy farming manuals and ledgers from when tobacco still paid the bills. Under a loose floorboard, I discover a metal lockbox.
Inside are property documents and a hand-drawn map.
And a letter addressed not to Victor—our uncle—but to “The true heir.”
My pulse hammers.
The letter says the land was meant to be protected, not sold. It mentions a hidden cistern beneath the old tobacco barn. A second well for hard times.
And a warning: If Victor returns, don’t trust him.
The next morning, I follow the map. The barn is half-collapsed, swallowed by vines. Inside, I find a trapdoor. Beneath it, cool air rises from stone steps.
At the bottom, there’s clean water.
Clear. Cold.
I touch it like it’s sacred.