“What have you found, treasure hunter?”
My fingers touch something smooth and hard. Carefully, I excavate the object, revealing a glass bottle, its green surface dulled by years in the sea. The bottle is capped with what looks like an old cork, sealed with wax.
“Well, look at that,” I breathe, turning the bottle over in my hands.
Finn sits proudly beside me. I scratch behind his ears in appreciation.
“Good boy. Very good boy.”
The bottle is old, possibly dating back several decades based on the glass style. And inside, clearly visible, is a rolled piece of paper.
A message in a bottle. It seems too coincidental, too staged. Yet here it is, unearthed by Finn at the very beach where Dad and I collected our driftwood.
I break the wax seal carefully and work the cork free. The paper inside proves challenging to extract without damaging it, but eventually, I manage to slide it out intact. The paper feels brittle, though not as ancient as I might have expected. Perhaps ten years old, not fifty. I unroll it gently, revealing faded handwriting.
I recognize the handwriting immediately. Dad’s distinctive script, with its slanting letters and heavy pressure marks.
Look around you.
Hidden treasures in plain sight.
The truth lies beneath the surface,
where the tide reveals and conceals.
Follow the map.
Map?I turn the paper over and find a rough sketch of what appears to be a section of coastline. Not a traditional treasure map with X marks the spot, but a series of beach locations marked with symbols. Some of the locations seem familiar, places where Dad and I used to collect driftwood.
Could this be connected to the stolen star? To the warning note? The timing seems too perfect to be coincidence.
Finn whines softly, pawing at my leg.
“I’m not sure yet,” I tell him, studying the map. “But I think Dad left this here. Maybe before he left us, maybe many years ago. And someone doesn’t want me to find whatever it leads to.”
What if the star wasn’t stolen for its material value or to sabotage the auction? What if it contained a clue of some kind? Something hidden within the driftwood itself?
The wind picks up, carrying the scent of impending rain. I carefully tuck the note and map into my coat pocket, making a mental note to examine it more thoroughly at home.
“Come on, Finn. We should get back before the weather turns.”
We’ve gone only a few steps when Finn freezes, his head turning sharply toward the dunes that border the beach. A low growl rumbles in his chest, the hair along his spine rising.
“What is it?”
I scan the dunes, seeing nothing at first. Then, a movement catches my eye. A figure, partially obscured by the tall grass, watching us. When our eyes meet, the figure turns and disappears over the ridge.
“Hey!” I call out, starting toward the dunes. “Wait!”
But whoever it was is gone by the time we reach the spot. Finn sniffs the ground intently, picking up a scent that leads toward the parking area. We follow, but the trail ends at the asphalt.
Who was watching us? How long had they been there? Had they seen us find the bottle?
Back in my truck, with Finn in the passenger seat, I study the map again. Seven locations are marked along the coastline, each with a different symbol. The first one appears to be exactly where we found the bottle today. The second looks like it might be near the old jetty, about a quarter mile north of where we are now.
“What do you think, Finn? Should we check the next spot?”
Finn tilts his head.
