I stared at the drenched, bloated suitcase sitting in our tiny fishing boat.
I’d been searching for the phone I stupidly dropped overboard but found this relic buried at the bottom of the lake instead.
“You gonna open it?” my son asked.
Something about this mossy piece of luggage made my skin crawl. It reeked of dirt and death.
“Wait, Dad… that name,” he said, his voice cracking.
Embossed in cursive lettering on a tarnished brass plaque — the name of my great-great-grandfather.
“Wasn’t he the one who…” His voice trailed off.
So much for a relaxing day of fishing.
