I should have recognised that expression in Juno’s eyes.
Our only plan was a leisurely walk by the river. As if it were her full-time job, she splashed with pleasure, taking in a chestful of water and splashing me. Watching her paddling wildly between the rocks, I couldn’t help but laugh.
Then she stopped.
As if in whole statue mode. Note to self. Looking at the underwater object.
She plunged her entire face into the water before I could say, ‘Leave it!’ and then surfaced with… something. Honestly, at first I thought it was a stick. Then I noticed its shine.
It wasn’t a stick.
The box was made of metal.
Crumpled, compact, about the size of a lunchbox, and completely sealed. As if realising she had done something significant, Juno threw it at my feet.
My dog looked at me with a ‘So what?’ look, and I stood there with a racing pulse and soaked shoes, clutching the mysterious box in my hands. Open it!
I shook it. It’s heavy. There must be something inside. No mark. No lock. Just rusty, stubborn edges.
I’m not going to lie: I contemplated for about five minutes whether to open it there, sitting on the rocks, or bring it home and open it somewhere more secure.
But just as I was about to make a decision…..
Footsteps were heard behind me.
And an unfamiliar voice said: ‘Hey, this doesn’t belong to you.’
I turned around slowly, holding the box as if it were about to explode, or maybe it was because I hated to even think about opening it. Standing there with dishevelled hair and wearing an old flannel shirt rolled up to his elbows was a man in his thirties, which is about my age. He was carrying a rucksack over one shoulder, and his boots were muddy. The expression on his face was tense, as if he was panicking, running, or doing both.
He pointed to the bag in my hands and asked sternly: ‘Where did you find this?’
‘О…’ I looked at Juno, who was wagging her tail like nothing had happened. It was found in the river by my dog. Why? Do you know what it is?
His gaze shifted from me to the box and back again as he paused. ‘Yes, I do. Besides, you have to give it to me.
So, first warning sign. I gripped the box tighter. ‘Why should I believe you? It could belong to anyone, as far as I’m concerned.”
‘It belongs to someone who doesn’t want it to fall into the wrong hands,’ he replied. “Look, if you value your safety and the safety of your dog, you will give it up now. I don’t have time to explain everything here.”
Safety? Was Juno in some kind of trouble? Trying to figure out if this guy is real or just a pervert trying to scare me off to get hold of the treasure he has in him, my thoughts raced. Either way, until I had answers, I wasn’t going anywhere.
‘Tell me more,’ I said firmly. Who is the rightful owner? What does it contain?
Sighing, the man pinched the bridge of his nose as if I was being deliberately difficult. “All right. It’s… personal files. Family treasures. important records. things that aren’t just important to you.”
That didn’t quite satisfy me, but before I could ask further questions, Juno began barking furiously, raising her head. She growled at the man, lunging forward and, I assure you, was ready to bite him if he came even an inch closer. My suspicion that this man was untrustworthy was confirmed by the fact that dogs are excellent judges of character.
With the box under my arm, I stepped back and remarked, ‘I think we’re done here.’ ‘Leave it to the authorities if it’s really important.’
His face turned serious. “You don’t understand. You’re making a serious mistake.”
I walked away without continuing the discussion. With my heart pounding frantically, I grabbed Juno by the leash and led her away from there. I heard him yell something behind me, but I didn’t listen. It was obvious that whatever was in that bag was business and I had to find out why.
I put the box on the kitchen table and closed the door when I got home. Exhausted, Juno collapsed on the floor but continued to watch me closely, as if expecting pyrotechnics at any moment. For a long time I stared at the object, wondering if opening it would cause chaos. However, curiosity took over.
It was rusted through, so I pryed it open with a butter knife (classy, he knows). There was nothing particularly earth-shattering inside. Not at first glance, anyway. There were yellowed letters tied with string, faded photographs, and a small wooden box that shook slightly when I shook it. Nothing screamed ‘explosive’ or ‘treasure.’ I was drawn to the photos because they showed a young couple posing in front of some of the city icons from the days when they were newer and shinier. A park bench. A vintage diner. A gazebo in the centre of town.
Then I saw the names written on the back of one of the photos: Thomas and Evelyn, 1987.