“Nothing. He just said, ‘Son, by the time you understand why I wanted to show you this tree, it might already be too late.'”
Robert covered his face with his hands.
“That was the last time I ever saw him.”
I was stunned.
“But you always told me your father died suddenly.”
“He did. A few months later, he had a heart attack. And I never got the chance to apologize.”
He began carefully removing more soil from around the tree’s roots.
I knelt beside him.
“Robert, why now?”
He answered:
“Three months ago, I found my father’s old diary. He described this oak tree and wrote that he’d placed something inside the box that he wanted to pass down to me.”
Just then, his fingers touched something hard.
We both fell silent.
Robert carefully brushed away the dirt.
A small, rusted metal container appeared.
He lifted it from the ground.
