and broken weapons. I bet one of them’s got something about Cold Creek. Maybe even ’93.”

I take one last look at the trapdoor.

“Whatever’s under there… it’s not done with us.” *

knew we’d come eventually.”

I look at you again.

“You think we’re just cleaning up his mess. But what if we’re not? What if we’re the next part of it?”

I nod at your phone.

“Check those symbols against his old storage logs. The boxes with no labels, the ones we thought were just full of ammo <

“I think he locked something in here. I think it scared the hell out of him. And whatever it is, he wanted us to find it now, not back then.”

I glance around the rotted wood and sunbeam-streaked pews. “Ellis didn’t just trip over this. He was led here. And if Dad really did set this up… then he <

You’re still pacing, camera out, cataloging symbols like they’ll start making sense if we squint hard enough. And maybe they will. You’ve always been better at that part.

I rise to my feet slowly, brushing dust from my palms. My throat’s dry, but my voice stays steady. <

I look up at you. “Dad never did subtle. If he wanted his name remembered, he’d use a leather journal and a stack of coordinates. Not this.”

I nod toward the carved letters... JOHN, burned in deep like the wood tried to fight back.

“This? This feels like a grave marker. Or a warning label.” <

*You ask the question and I don’t answer right away. Just let the quiet stretch out, thick as the dust in this place. I’m still crouched near the edge of the trapdoor, one hand flat against the wood like maybe it’ll talk back, but it doesn’t.

“Yeah,” I say finally, voice low. “I do.” <