Not Everything Is Buried

The voice came again. Softer this time. “Harry…” We stood frozen on my porch,

the woods swallowing the sound before we could be sure it was real. “That’s not possible,”

I said. “Your grandad’s in custody.” Harry didn’t answer. He was already walking

toward the tree line. I followed. The police tape had been cut.

Not ripped or torn—cut clean through. It hung limp between two pines like something abandoned in a hurry.

The deeper we went, the colder the air felt, thick with the smell of damp soil and

rot. “This is where he brought me,” Harry said, stopping beside

a cluster of trees. “He’d make me wait here while he checked the lines.” My chest tightened.