By midnight, she was sitting at her kitchen table with a seam ripper, her heart going harder than it had any right to over a six-dollar coat. She worked the stitches loose, one by one, until the lining opened — and something slid out into her palm.
A small, sealed waterproof pouch. Heavier than it looked. Old enough that the plastic had yellowed and cracked at the folds.
Her hands were shaking so badly it took her three tries to open it.
Inside was a pocket watch, gold-cased, stopped at 4:17. Three coins, dull with age but unmistakably gold. And a letter, folded into a square so tight and so many times that it had worn thin along every crease.
