“It could be ventilation. Or?—”
“A tunnel between our lands,” Callum finishes. “Would explain everything.”
A physical remnant of a time when our estates were one.
“We should explore it,” I say.
“You can. I’ve got a criminal to escort home.”
He grabs Hamish’s collar—but the sheep resists, pulling toward an old barrel in the corner.
“What now?” Callum groans.
Hamish nudges it insistently.
“I think he’s showing us something,” I say.
“Or more food.”
We step closer.
The barrel is old—oak, worn… carved initials.
A.M. and E.M.
“Archibald McKenzie and Elspeth McGregor?”
Callum runs his fingers over the engraving.
Hamish wedges his nose into the barrel, pulls out something, chewing.
“Barley?” Callum frowns.
“Fate works in strange ways,” I murmur.
“You believe in that?” he asks.
I never have.
But standing here—with the tunnel, the barrel, the map…
“Not usually,” I admit. “But lately… there’ve been too many coincidences.”
We fall silent.
“You know,” Callum says eventually, scratching Hamish’s head, “Keira doesn’t believe in fate either. Says we make our own path.”
“She’s right.”
“Maybe. But sometimes… it feels like the path was already there. Waiting.”
He tugs Hamish along.
“I should get this menace home.”
“I’ll walk you out.”
On the way back, he speaks again.
