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Without another word, the couple led James and Alice through the back of the restaurant, down a narrow staircase that opened into a cool, dimly lit storage cellar. The scent of herbs and aged wood hung in the air. In one corner, tucked beside a row of crates, sat a small wooden box — plain, unmarked, its lid slightly ajar.

James stepped forward, crouching beside the wooden box. He ran a hand along the grain of the lid, examining it closely.

“I assume it wasn’t locked when you first checked it?” he asked without looking up.

Elisabetta shook her head. “No. It was already slightly open when we arrived. We just lifted the lid — but there was nothing inside.”

James then carefully examined the box, running his fingers along the inside edges. Just as the housekeepers had described, it was about the size of a large suitcase — nothing unusual at first glance. But as he leaned in to inspect the interior more closely, he noticed something faint at the bottom.

The light was dim in the storage area, but there appeared to be small pieces of paper scattered near the corner — barely visible against the worn wood. Frowning, James switched on his flashlight.

Under the beam, the papers came into focus: thin, crumpled, and torn along the edges — as if they had been hastily stuffed in or carelessly handled. He crouched lower and carefully picked up the fragments one by one.

He held them up, letting the others see. “Not entirely empty, it seems,” he murmured.

André let out a low whistle. “That’s… impressive. We didn’t even notice those when we checked the box.”

“Sharp eyes,” Elisabetta agreed, a bit sheepishly.

James set the pieces down gently on the floor. Just then, Alice stepped in and knelt beside him. Without a word, she began helping him piece the torn fragments together, aligning corners and smoothing creases.