The paper trembles in my hands as I lower it.
For a moment, no one speaks.
Then Marshall breaks the silence. “Okay. First thing, this is not nothing. This isn’t some crank.”
“No,” Wyatt agrees quietly. “There’s too much restraint. Too much intention.”
I sink into the nearest chair because my legs have finally given up. “I don’t even know what to do with this.”
Wyatt leans forward, forearms on his knees. “Let’s start with what it isn’t. It’s not threatening. It’s not asking for anything. It’s not trying to rush you.”
Marshall snorts. “It’s rushing her. Just… politely.”
Wyatt shoots him a look, then softens it when he turns back to me. “What he means is… it’s nudging, not pushing. Whoever wrote this expects you to think.”
“And they expect you to act,” Marshall adds. “Eventually.”
I stare at the table. “They’re talking about my grandmother’s workspace. Her bee room. The shed. That’s where I learned patience. Where she taught me how to wait, how to listen.”
Wyatt nods slowly. “That tracks.”
Marshall’s gaze sharpens. “Is there anyone still alive who would’ve been around back then? Anyone who left?”
I hesitate.
“There’s my aunt,” I admit. “Mara. My mom’s sister. She left town after everything and never came back.”
Wyatt tilts his head. “And no contact since?”
“None,” I say. “No letters. No calls. It was like she vanished.”
Marshall’s mouth tightens. “That doesn’t happen without a reason.”
I rub my arms, suddenly cold. “I don’t even know how I’d find her.”
Wyatt leans back in his chair, fingers steepled loosely, eyes distant in that way that means his brain is already sorting possibilities into careful stacks.
“Okay,” he says slowly. “Let’s take it piece by piece. The clues aren’t poetic for nothing. They’re directional.”
Marshall snorts. “Or they’re meant to feel clever while keeping whoever wrote it protected.”
“That too,” Wyatt allows. “So check the bee yard, right?”
My chest tightens. “It’s not that simple.”
“Why not?” he presses. “If someone left something, and they expect you to find it?—”
“Because it feels like a trap,” I snap, then immediately regret the sharpness in my voice. I drag a hand through my hair, frustration buzzing under my skin. “An… emotional one. Like if I open the wrong drawer or read the wrong page, everything I thought I knew is going to tilt sideways.”
“That might be true no matter when you do it.”
I laugh, brittle. “That’s not comforting.”
He gives me a small, apologetic smile. “I know.”
Marshall nods. “Alright. Then we don’t solve it today.”
I look up, startled.
