When the will was read, everyone else got the big stuff. The house, the savings account, the jewelry box we all secretly knew held more than just costume pearls. I didn’t expect anything, honestly.
But then the lawyer slid over one small envelope with my name on it. Inside was a key, a handwritten note, and a hand-drawn map.
Just six words in Grandma’s writing:
“Go to the place he built.”
I knew exactly where it was before I unfolded the map. The old cabin. Tucked behind the orchard, past the ridge, half-swallowed by trees and time. No electricity. No plumbing. No reason, really, to keep it around.
