The year was 1856, and the little town of Blackwater nestled on the edge of a lazy river. Young Tom Bartlett, no more than ten, dashed along the wooden planks of the docks with a wild grin on his face, his loyal dog, Buster, bounding at his heels. Buster was a scruffy mutt, a mix of something sturdy and something clever, with a coat the color of river mud and eyes bright as polished brass.

It was early summer, and the air was sweet with the mingling scents of wildflowers and brine. The docks were alive with the hustle of fishermen hauling in their morning catch, crates creaking as they were loaded onto wagons, and the faint strains of a fiddle playing from the window of the tavern. But Tom and Buster paid no mind to the commotion—they had their own world of adventure to tend to.

“Come on, Buster! Bet you can’t catch me!” Tom hollered, his bare feet slapping against the weathered planks as he darted toward the edge of the dock. Buster barked once, a sharp, joyous sound, and lunged forward in pursuit, his tail wagging so furiously it could have powered a windmill.

They reached the very end of the dock, where an old, abandoned rowboat bobbed gently in the water, its paint peeling and its oars long since vanished. To the townsfolk, it was nothing more than a forgotten relic, but to Tom, it was a pirate ship, a treasure hunter’s skiff, and sometimes, a secret hideout.

“Cap’n Tom and First Mate Buster!” Tom announced, clambering into the boat and striking a dramatic pose. Buster leapt in after him, his paws slipping on the damp wood as he scrambled for balance.

Tom grabbed a stick he’d found earlier and waved it like a cutlass. “Look sharp, matey! I see the enemy on the horizon!” He pointed to a seagull perched on a piling, which regarded the pair with an air of supreme disinterest.

Buster barked, clearly ready to charge into battle, and Tom laughed so hard he nearly tipped them both into the river.

But as the laughter faded, something caught Tom’s eye. Floating just beneath the water’s surface, tangled in a patch of reeds, was a small wooden chest. His breath caught.

“Look at that, Buster!” he whispered, leaning over the edge of the boat. “Do you think it’s… treasure?”

The dog tilted his head, then barked again, as if to say, What are you waiting for? Grab it!

Tom reached down, his fingers brushing the water as he strained to pull the chest free. It was heavier than he expected, and the reeds clung to it like they didn’t want to let go. Finally, with a great heave, he hauled it into the boat. Water streamed from the chest as it thudded onto the planks, and Tom stared at it, his heart pounding.

The chest was no bigger than a loaf of bread, its surface carved with strange, swirling patterns. The metal latch was rusted, but it gave way with a sharp tug. Inside, nestled among a layer of soaked velvet, was a delicate silver locket.

Tom held it up, the sunlight catching on its surface, and gently opened it. Inside was a tiny painting of a woman with kind eyes and a warm smile. On the opposite side, an inscription read: To my dearest Anne, with love eternal.

Tom frowned. “Who’s Anne?” he wondered aloud.

Buster barked softly, his tail wagging slower now, as if sensing the moment’s solemnity.

Tom looked back toward the shore, where the bustle of the docks continued as though nothing had happened. But he felt different, as if he’d stumbled into a story much older than himself.

“We’ve got to find out who this belongs to,” he said firmly, tucking the locket back into the chest. “Come on, Buster. Adventure’s not over yet.”

The boy and his dog jumped from the boat and sprinted back up the docks, the locket clutched tightly in Tom’s hand. Behind them, the river flowed on, carrying secrets and stories in its depths, as it always had and always would.