It comes free with a dry scrape of leather. The bag is heavier than it looks. You set it between both of you, and the old man watches it with an intensity that makes your skin prickle. Not greed. Not panic. Something closer to solemn relief.
“Open it,” he says.
You hesitate.
Then you do.
Inside are three things.
A thick envelope sealed with red wax, cracked from age and heat.
A smaller cloth pouch, tied with cord.
And a silver key attached to a metal tag stamped with a number: 317.
For a second, you just stare.
This is not what you expected. No money spilling out. No weapon. No food. Just objects that seem too deliberate to be random and too important to belong to a man dying in the dirt.
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