She pried it open. Inside: a small cellar lined with dusty jars of preserves and a leather-bound journal. The journal belonged to a girl named Clara, dated 1957. “They think I ran away,” one entry read, “but I hid what Papa stole from the bank. Under the wishing tree, in a tin box.”
Lexi closed the box. She didn’t call Silas—not yet. Instead, she found Ezra’s last known address. He was 92 now, living in a nursing home two towns over. lexi luna landscaper
It started with an overgrown lot on Maple Street. The elderly owner, Mrs. Gable, had passed away, and the new owner—a quiet, pale man named Silas—hired Lexi to clear the invasive wisteria and tangled boxwoods. “Just dig deep,” he’d said, his eyes flickering toward the massive oak tree. “The roots run farther than you think.” She pried it open