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With a reluctant signature on bank foreclosure notices and a weekend commitment to clear out her estranged uncle's property, Mia Wilson unknowingly stepped into a Depression-era mystery that would transform her struggling farm and shake the foundations of her small town. For beneath the jumbled heaps of rust and forgotten machinery lay a secret that powerful interests had spent nearly a century keeping hidden. The midday sun beat down mercilessly as Mia Wilson navigated her weathered pickup truck along the gravelly back roads of Summerville County. Tall weeds and abandoned tractors dotted the landscape of what had once been thriving farmland, now mostly surrendered to corporate agriculture and economic hardship. This forgotten stretch of rural America hadn't seen prosperity since before the 2008 recession. Mia hadn't planned on inheriting a junkyard. Her small family farm was barely staying afloat, teetering on the edge of bankruptcy despite her best efforts. The unexpected call from an attorney three days ago had been the latest in a string of complications: "Your uncle Samuel Wilson has passed away. Despite your complicated relationship, he's left his salvage yard business to you." The complicated relationship was lawyer-speak for a fifteen-year estrangement. Uncle Sam had feuded bitterly with Mia's father over family land, taking their dispute to such extremes that holiday gatherings had permanently fractured. The reasons were never fully explained to Mia, just vague references to "principles" and her father's tight-lipped warning that "some folks can't be trusted with family history, Mia." Now at thirty-three, with her father five years in the grave and her mother moved to Arizona for her health, Mia was expected to deal with the abandoned property. According to the attorney, it was a weekend task to clear it out and prepare it for a quick sale—the proceeds barely enough to keep her own farm afloat for another season. Another burden on shoulders already carrying too much weight. Wilson Salvage appeared through a haze of summer dust as Mia rounded the final bend. A sprawling five-acre lot surrounded by a corrugated metal fence, topped with faded, peeling lettering that had once proudly announced "Sam Wilson's Treasure Trove" to passing motorists. In her childhood memories, it had seemed an endless wonderland of fascinating junk and mysterious treasures. Now it just looked like what it was: a graveyard of broken machines and forgotten steel.