Pale gold light stretched across the orchard, softening the dead branches, almost making them look alive from a distance. For a brief irrational second, he wondered if he’d exaggerated the damage in his head. He hadn’t. By 8:00, the sun was already climbing, and the heat would follow.
Caleb moved through the kitchen, opening cabinets more out of restlessness than purpose. Most were empty. A few held old canning jars, a rusted can opener, a stack of yellowed seed cataloges. He told himself he was just killing time before making the call to Apex. That was when his boot heel caught on a loose board near the sink. The plank shifted with a hollow metallic thud beneath it. Caleb froze.
He crouched down, pried at the warped edge, and lifted the board carefully. Beneath it sat a narrow iron hatch, dusty but intact. the handle flush with the floor as if meant to stay hidden. His pulse quickened, cautious, skeptical, unwilling to hope. He tubbed the handle. It resisted, then gave with a dry groan.
Cool air rose from below. The ladder creaked under his weight as he descended into the dim space. Phone flashlight cutting through the dark. What he expected was a root cellar. What he found made him stop halfway down. It wasn’t storage. It was organized. Shelving lined the walls, rows of labeled glass jars filled with seeds, not random scoops, but carefully cataloged batches, drought trials, crossbreeds, notes in precise handwriting.
There were humidity meters, soil samples sealed in plastic, binders stacked neatly on a long metal table. This wasn’t a hobby. This was research. Caleb stepped fully onto the concrete floor, heart pounding in confused disbelief. On the far end of the table sat a small cedar box. His name was carved into the lid. Caleb Mercer. His hands shook as he opened it.
