She reached out and carefully slid the urn to the side.

The mortar around the red brick behind it was gray and crumbling.

I tapped the brick with the butt of the heavy flashlight.

It vibrated, completely detached from the stone wall.

I wedged my fingers into the crack and pulled the brick free.

It fell to the floor with a heavy thud, releasing a small cloud of white dust.

Inside the hollow space lay a cylinder of oilcloth bound with thick twine.

I reached in and pulled it out.

The cloth was stiff and smelled of beeswax.

“Is that it?” Lydia asked, her breath misting in the cold air.

“Only one way to find out,” I said.

I cut the twine with my pocketknife and unrolled the stiff material.

Inside was a thick sheet of parchment, yellowed at the edges but remarkably dry.

The words at the top were written in a dark, elegant script: *Charter of the Mercer Ridge, 1782*.

Lydia held the flashlight steady while I read the faded ink.

“It is signed by the governor,” Lydia said, her voice hushed.