Cracking the Wax

That crust of vintage sealing wax on the mint tin wasn't going to budge for my fingernails, so I dragged the whole mystery into the kitchen. Perched on the edge of a chair, I jammed the tip of a flat butter knife right into the seam where the lid met the blackened metal. One solid, impatient shove, and the brittle red wax fractured with a satisfying snap, spraying flaky red crumbs across the scarred wood. The lid pried loose with a squeak. Tucked inside on a bed of faded yellow cotton wasn't diamonds or a dead spider, but a flat brass token stamped with a crescent moon and the number seven. Naturally, my pocket collection just got an upgrade.