Marin was twenty-seven when she buried the only family she had ever truly known—her grandfather, Harold. He had raised her since she was two, after her parents died in a car accident. The small house they shared was worn but full of warmth: a creaky porch swing, a lemon tree in the yard, a kitchen that always smelled like breakfast. He walked her to school, tucked notes into her lunchbox, and read to her every night. Whatever hardships he carried, he hid them well, making sure Marin always felt safe and chosen.
The day after the funeral, a plain envelope appeared on her doorstep. Inside was a brass key and a letter written in her grandfather’s careful handwriting. He explained that the key opened a hidden compartment beneath a rug in the attic—one he had kept secret for her entire life. With shaking hands, Marin climbed upstairs, lifted the rug, and unlocked a small wooden hatch filled with documents and another sealed letter.
