The Artifact

Day 3.

Windless. Dry. The sun was unrelenting overhead, but it was nothing he hadn’t trained for. Conditions were optimal. Soil cooperative. Visibility… fair.

He knelt at the excavation site, brushing steadily with his finest tool—a precision bristle #2, custom-trimmed. Slow, circular motions. Nothing aggressive. He’d seen too many amateurs ruin everything in the final inches.

He paused. Gloved hand hovered just above the surface. There was something there. A glint of red beneath the grit—deeper than expected.

That would place it in Layer Three.

He sat back on his heels and scanned the perimeter. The site, of course, had been compromised. Other excavators had trampled through earlier—rookies, most of them—leaving shallow scrapes and scattered debris. The integrity of the layer was already in question.

He sighed. “Sloppy work,” he muttered. “You seeing this, Milo?”

No reply, of course. Milo had been quiet all morning.

He leaned in again. New pocket. New hope.

The brush caught on something smooth. He worked around it carefully, breath steady. Then—release.

He pulled it free.

A spoon. Plastic. Neon green. Bent at the neck. Useless. He tossed it aside without ceremony.

Then, another shape—slightly curved, pale pink, with glitter.

He held it to the light. “Elastic… possibly ceremonial… or discarded apparel,” he said. “Note it either way.”

Still nothing from Milo. Typical.

He adjusted his headlamp and shifted to quadrant four. The sand here had changed—looser, lighter. He leaned in and sniffed. Scent of bubblegum and something artificial.

And then—finally—he saw it.

Barely visible, nestled in the far corner.

A smooth ridge. Metal. Curved.

He inhaled sharply. Brushed once. Twice.

And then it came free.

The artifact.

He held it up, trembling. Sunlight caught the side: shiny silver, smooth and cold, shaped like a tiny Scottie dog mid-stride. He had seen one like it before—decades ago, in a game that ruined friendships. The detail was exquisite. He blinked against emotion.

“Milo,” he whispered. “We found it.”

But before he could bag it, a shadow fell across the dig.

A voice. Sharp. Familiar.

“Jared.”

He didn’t look up. Not yet.

“Get. Out. Of. The sandbox.”

He turned.

There were people now. Parents. Children. Party hats. A deflated bounce house in the background. One kid had a cupcake smeared across his entire face.

His wife stood at the edge of the crater, arms crossed, fury radiating.

He slowly rose, brushing sand from his vest. Slid the artifact into his side pouch.

Then he turned to a boy in a Batman shirt.

“Protect the site,” he said softly.

And walked away.