Marlowe
King suggested, near dawn, that I go collect a few personal items from Wrench's own quarters — a change of clothes, his reading glasses, anything familiar that might comfort him once he woke properly — and I welcomed the small, practical task as a distraction from the anxious helplessness of simply waiting.
Wrench's room sat above the garage, spare and unadorned in a way that matched his own gruff, practical personality perfectly, and I moved through it carefully, gathering what he'd need with a tenderness that felt like its own quiet act of love.
I found the box while searching his closet for a proper jacket, tucked behind an old set of tools on the top shelf, unremarkable enough that I nearly missed it entirely. Curiosity, and a growing sense that this particular find mattered
