Arthur smiled. His large, weathered hands, scarred by fifty years of honest labor, carefully untied the frayed twine and pulled back the brown paper.
Inside rested an antique, four-inch pocket compass that Chloe had found in an antique shop in Lititz, its brass casing polished until it shone like the morning sun.
Mounted inside the lid, engraved beneath the glass in clean, precise script that Eleanor had penned, were four words:
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**THE STONE REMAINS. — CHLOE & ELEANOR.**
Arthur Vance’s chest tightened so hard that the air left his lungs in an audible, ragged gasp.
A single tear welled up in his eye, tracing a path down the deep lines of his cheek, splashing softly onto the brass compass face.
He looked at his daughter.
He looked at his granddaughter.
The house that had been cold was warm.
The rooms that had been silent were filled with the sacred music of children’s laughter.
