When Dantès returned to his cellmate's chamber the next morning, he found Faria sitting calmly by the narrow window. Sunlight streamed through the bars, illuminating a rolled-up piece of paper in the old man's left hand, the only hand he could still use after his recent stroke.
Faria didn't speak. He simply held up the paper, watching Dantès with knowing eyes.
"What's that?" Dantès asked, curiosity overcoming his caution.
"Take a look," Faria replied with a mysterious smile.
Dantès examined the document carefully. "It's just a half-burned piece of paper with some old writing on it. The ink looks strange, and I can barely make out the letters."
"This paper, my friend," Faria said, his voice growing serious, "is my treasure. And from today forward, half of it belongs to you."
