The hinge yielded by degrees. A brittle oilcloth packet lay inside, crumbling at his touch to reveal an ornate brass key—heavy, engraved, unwilling to be anything but important.
Under it: a medallion stamped with the crest of Harrington Maritime, a shipping dynasty that had swallowed more than it paid back. Rowan’s breath clipped short. His father had crewed a Harrington vessel once, years before the storm that didn’t return him.
A sliver of stamped metal clung beneath the cloth—numbers and an address in the dock district. Coordinates written in steel. Instructions disguised as junk.
He tucked the key and medallion into his tackle box and stared at the horizon until it stopped looking like an answer and started looking like a test.
