“Inside the hollow post of the gate,” he had said, pointing to the square iron column.

“I will always hide the key to our life there.”

I had forgotten those words, burying them under decades of marriage and everyday life.

Now, my heart began to beat fast against my ribs.

I walked quickly down the gravel path, the wind whipping my hair across my face.

I reached the massive iron gatepost.

The metal was cold and rough under my bare hands.

Near the bottom of the post, behind a thick patch of ivy, was a small opening.

The iron had rusted away over the years, leaving a gap just wide enough for a hand.

I knelt in the damp dirt, ignoring the cold mud soaking into my trousers.

I reached my hand inside the dark, hollow post.

My fingers brushed against dry leaves and cobwebs.

I reached deeper, my knuckles scraping against the sharp edges of the rusted iron.

My fingers hit something solid and cold.

It was a small, rectangular metal tin.

I pulled it out, my hands trembling.