The roots of the pine were wrapped around the object like fingers clenched in a fist. They were thick and sinewy, grown into the metal, gripping it as if the tree itself had become the lock. Alex carefully cut one root, then another. Each one fought the blade, resisting not just the steel, but the very act of interference.
The ground around it was unnaturally compacted. He dug deeper and realized immediately: someone had dug here before. The soil had been laid in deliberate layers, mixed with small stones, not the chaotic mess of the wild forest floor. Someone had worked here by hand, with intent.
Slowly, the outline of the object emerged. It was a steel box. Large, rectangular, and heavy-looking. Its surface was a crust of rust, sap, and dirt fused together. The edges were smoothed by time, but the industrial shape remained clear.
This wasn’t a homemade box. It was manufactured to last. Alex sat back, catching his breath. His heart was steady but heavy. He felt the weight of the moment not as fear, but as a profound responsibility. Everything he’d found so far led to this box. The bullets and chains weren’t the end; they were part of the process.
Sam Patterson walked up. The foreman looked paler than usual. His narrow face was gaunt, his lips pressed into a thin line. He didn’t get too close, stopping a few feet away as if afraid to cross an invisible line.
“This is… serious,” he finally said. “We need to report this immediately.”
Alex nodded. He knew that. But he also knew something else. Reports meant protocols. Protocols meant “official versions.” And official versions often erased the truth. He looked at the box again. The roots held it so tightly, it was as if the tree had decided to hide the contents deeper than any grave.
Alex cleared the front and saw the details: heavy hinges, thick with corrosion. A lock. A simple mechanical latch, no electronics. This wasn’t a booby-trapped cache; it was a vault.
“Are you sure you want to do this?” Sam asked quietly. There was no command in his voice, only the exhaustion of a man who had seen too much and often preferred not to know.
Alex didn’t answer right away. He saw the void in the tree again, the warped rings, the chain fused into the wood. He remembered the look on Old Hank’s face—not surprised, but resigned. He thought of the stories of missing people no one ever really looked for. All of it was coming to a head here.
“If we leave it,” he said finally, “the forest will just swallow it again, and then no one will ever know.”
Sam looked away.
“Do what you have to do,” he said after a pause. “I didn’t see anything.”
It was the only support he could offer.
Alex knelt by the box. He cleared the dirt from the lock, tested it with a knife, then a screwdriver. The metal resisted, but not aggressively. There was no threat in it, only age and neglect. He moved slowly, feeling the moment tighten around him. This was the point of no return. Once the box was open, the world wouldn’t be the same…
