We spent forty minutes going through the rest of the crates, keeping Grandfather’s brass compass, his hand-forged wood chisels, and the seven yellow folders that held the original, untouched bank receipts.

Everything else, including the framed society awards and the corporate plaques Richard had left behind, stayed where it was on the cold concrete.

I pulled the metal door down, snapped the heavy brass padlock shut, and handed Ethan the spare key.

By four thirty the sun hung low behind the bare maples in the cottage’s front yard.

The wooden porch swing creaked back and forth as Ethan and I sat side by side, a thick wool blanket spread over our knees against the late afternoon chill.

The quiet autumn sunlight lay golden across the porch boards and the yellowed lawn.