The morning air was heavy as I stood at Grandpa’s graveside, hands buried in my black dress pockets. Around me, family murmured bitterly—not about grief, but the one-dollar inheritance each had received. To them, it was betrayal. To me, it was a riddle.
Grandpa had always said, “One day, kiddo, I’ll leave you a real treasure.”
As I lingered, an older woman approached. “Your grandfather asked me to give you this,” she whispered, pressing a folded note into my hand:
111 locker — Southern Railway Station.
The next morning, I went. My fingers trembled unlocking the compartment. Inside: an old duffel bag, stuffed with cash. On top, a handwritten note:
“For my beloved granddaughter. Everything I saved is now yours. Live free, kiddo. I always believed in you.”
Tears blurred my vision. This wasn’t just money—it was freedom, a final act of love from the one person who truly saw me.
I didn’t go home. I booked a one-way ticket and never looked back.
