Beyond the wall lay darkness.
But not empty darkness.
A passage extended deeper into the mountain.
Samuel looked at Edgar.
"Did you know this was here?"
The old man's face had gone white.
"No."
Samuel did not believe him.
He removed another stone.
Then another.
Within minutes, the opening was wide enough for a person to pass.
Daniel stepped forward.
Samuel stopped him.
"I go first."
Daniel hesitated.
Then nodded.
Clara caught Samuel's hand.
"Be careful."
He looked down at her.
Even now, surrounded by secrets and danger, he managed a small smile.
"I promised you another Sunday supper."
She squeezed his fingers.
"You'd better keep that promise."
He kissed her forehead.
Then stepped through the wall.
The passage beyond was older than the hidden chamber.
Its walls had not been reinforced with timber.
Instead, they followed a natural crack in the mountain, widened by picks and shovels.
Water dripped from the ceiling.
The air was bitterly cold.
Samuel moved carefully, testing the ground beneath each step.
Daniel followed with the lantern.
Clara remained at the opening with Edgar.
After several yards, the two men reached a wider chamber.
There, against the far wall, stood a rusted iron bedframe.
Beside it lay a broken tin cup.
A rotting blanket.
And a small wooden box.
Samuel approached slowly.
He crouched beside the box.
The lid had been carved with a simple design.
A mountain ridge.
A rising sun.
And beneath them, the initials T.W.
Daniel stood beside him.
His face changed.
"My grandfather."
Samuel opened the box.
Inside were a few personal belongings.
A brass compass.
A small pocketknife.
Three letters wrapped in cloth.
And a faded photograph of a woman holding a young child.
Daniel picked up the photograph.
For several seconds, he stared.
Then his eyes filled.
"That's my grandmother."
Samuel looked at him.
Daniel swallowed.
"And that's my father."
He sat heavily on a nearby stone.
The photograph trembled in his hands.
For years, he had imagined finding proof that his grandfather had been murdered.
He had prepared himself for bones.
For a grave.
For something terrible.
But this photograph was worse in a different way.
It meant Thomas Whitcomb had kept his family close even while imprisoned.
That he had looked at their faces.
Remembered them.
Waited.
Daniel covered his mouth with one hand.
Samuel stood silently beside him.
Then he noticed something carved into the wall behind the bedframe.
Words.
Dozens of them.
Dates.
Names.
Short messages.
Some had been scratched with a sharp object.
Others appeared to have been written with charcoal.
Samuel lifted the lantern.
The earliest date was from 1861.
The latest was from 1871.
Ten years.
Ten years of confinement.
Daniel stood.
Together, they read the final message.
If anyone finds this, tell my family I did not leave them willingly.