Your breath catches so hard it hurts.
There is no trash inside.
No food wrappers. No empty bottles. No household scraps. Instead, tucked carefully into the bottom inside a waterproof sleeve, is an old brown envelope worn at the corners and tied with faded twine. Beneath it sits a smaller velvet box, deep green, the kind jewelers used decades ago before packaging became sleek and soulless. And under both of those things, folded with almost painful neatness, is a single sheet of paper.
Your hands start shaking before you even touch them.
You pull out the note first.
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