At Grandpa’s funeral, 18-year-old Dahlia feels isolated as her family frets over her pitiful inheritance of a dollar. But when a stranger slips her a secret note, Dahlia finds herself drawn into a mystery that only she can solve.
I stood at the edge of the grave, my hands clenched in the pockets of my too-small black robe, listening to the priest’s monotonous voice mingling with the rustling of the wind.
It was the saddest day of my life, but the rest of the family seemed more concerned with glaring at each other than mourning Grandpa.
I could smell their bitterness in the crisp October air, thick as syrup. A dollar each. That’s all Grandpa left us in his will, and they were furious. But me? I wasn’t angry. Just… empty.
Grandpa wasn’t supposed to be gone. He was the only person who had ever seen me, not as the failure, not as the extra child that no one paid attention to, but me. He had accepted me when no one else cared.
I stared at the flowers resting on her coffin. I had brought her a red rose, which stood out among the white daisies that everyone had placed on the coffin.
“A dollar,” Aunt Nancy whispered behind me. “A goddamn dollar! That man was rich, and that’s all we get?”
Uncle Vic let out a bitter laugh. “Didn’t he? I swear he did it on purpose, that spiteful old man.”
“Typical Dad,” Mom murmured, arms crossed over her chest. “He always played favorites, and Dahlia here was his little darling. I bet she got something we don’t know about.”
Aunt Nancy’s eyes turned to me, sharp as glass. “What did he leave you, Dahlia? Nothing? Don’t pretend you didn’t get anything.”
I’ll stiffen. “I had the same thing as all of you.”
Mom’s fingers tightened on my shoulder. “Are you sure?” she asked in a low voice. “You were always with him. Maybe he told you something… think carefully, Dahlia. You owe it to your family to share what he gave you.”
Memories flooded back, of Grandpa’s crazy stories about lost treasures, and the caramel candies he always kept in his jacket pocket.
Sometimes he would wink at me and say, “One day, kid, I’ll leave you a treasure. A real treasure!” But it was just a game, a joke between us.
I shook my head and looked back at the coffin. “What Grandpa gave me was his love, his stories, and a place that felt more like a home than my real house. Those things were worth more than money, and there’s no way I’m—”
“Nobody cares about all that!” replied Mom. “Think about it, girl! What happened to all that money?”
I shrugged. I really didn’t know the answer to his question, and I didn’t care. Grandpa was gone. He was my confidant, my safe haven, my friend. I had lost the most important person in the world, but all they cared about was putting a price on his death.
“She knows something,” Vic whispered, loud enough for me to hear.
Their voices intertwined, accusatory, conspiratorial—as if they could extract secrets from me if they tried hard enough. But I had no secrets that could earn them more money.
As soon as they realized there would be no fortune, they turned away from the grave and walked away in a rage. I could still hear them bickering as they walked away, attacking each other like vultures. It made me sick.
“You must be Dahlia.”
I looked up to see a woman, maybe in her sixties, with kind eyes and an old leather bag slung over her shoulder. Her smile was sweet and secretive, as if she knew something the rest of us didn’t.
“I was a friend of your grandfather,” she said, leaning in as if we were accomplices. “He asked me to give you this.”
Before I could answer, she slipped a folded piece of paper into my hand and whispered, “Don’t let anyone see it, especially not your family.”
Her presence seemed surreal, almost dreamlike, and before I could say anything, she was gone, swallowed up by the crowd of mourners. My heart pounded in my chest as I unfolded the note.
111 locker — South Station.
For a moment I stood there frozen, the words blurring before my eyes. Then it hit me: Grandpa’s “treasure.” A laugh rose from my throat, inappropriate and wild, but I couldn’t help it. He wasn’t joking after all.
That night I lay in bed staring at the ceiling. The note was tucked under my pillow like a secret. Grandpa’s voice echoed in my head, mischievous but certain: “Lockers number 111… There’s treasure in there, kid!”
A weight settled on my chest, something between sorrow and hope. What if this wasn’t just some far-fetched treasure hunt? What if Grandpa had really left me something, hidden where no one else could reach it?
This thought kept going through my head until I couldn’t take it anymore. I needed to know what was in that locker.
The next morning, I ordered a taxi as soon as I woke up. As I slipped past the kitchen, I heard Mom muttering into the phone about Grandpa’s will, probably trying to extort sympathy or money from anyone who would listen.
I clenched my jaw and walked out the door, the cool morning air hitting my face like a slap.
The journey to Gare du Sud seemed like the longest twenty minutes of my life.
My knee bounced with nervous energy as the taxi snaked through narrow streets, past graffiti-covered walls and empty cafes starting to open. The driver glanced at me in the rearview mirror but said nothing.
When we finally arrived at the station, I asked him to wait and got out. I clutched the note to myself as I entered the station.
The place smelled of diesel and stale popcorn. People were rushing in all directions — commuters, travelers, strangers with destinations.
I hesitated at the entrance, suddenly feeling small and out of place. But then, Grandpa’s voice floated through my head again, calm and reassuring: “A real treasure, kiddo.”
I took a deep breath and walked over to the lockers, my heart pounding in my ears. Rows of metal boxes lined the wall, each one identical: gray, dented, and slightly rusty.
My eyes scanned the numbers until I found 111.
I pulled the note out of my pocket. The key was stuck to the back. With a trembling gesture, I removed it and inserted it into the lock.
For a moment it stuck and I panicked. But then — click! The lock turned and the door opened.
Inside was a duffel bag. It was old, faded, and heavy. My hands shook as I pulled it out and unzipped it.
The bag was full of bills. Bundles upon bundles!
I took a deep breath, my mind spinning. This wasn’t real, was it? I reached over and pulled out a wad, thumbing through the hundred dollar bills. There had to be at least $150,000 in there.
And stuck inside the bag was another word, written in Grandpa’s messy handwriting:
To my dear granddaughter, everything I’ve saved is now yours. Take it and live free, kid. The rest of the family may not see your worth, but I’ve always believed in you.
Tears blurred my vision, and I clutched the word to my chest, a lump forming in my throat. This wasn’t just money, it was freedom. An escape.
Grandpa always knew how much I needed to escape that family. And now he had given me exactly what I needed, while fooling everyone in the process!
I closed the bag, slung it over my shoulder, and walked out of the station, my heart beating in unison with my steps.
The morning sun was beginning to peek through the clouds, bathing everything in a soft golden light. For the first time in years, I felt… light.
On the taxi ride home, I stared out the window, watching the city wake up. I had options now. No more stuffy family dinners, no more being ignored or treated like an afterthought, no more being the family scapegoat.
I could leave. I could build something new.
The thought terrified me as much as it excited me, but Grandpa’s voice echoed in my head: “Live free, kid.”
When the taxi stopped in front of my house, I made up my mind. I wasn’t staying. Not a minute longer!
I didn’t even bother to go in. I took out my phone, booked a ticket to anywhere, and told the driver to take me straight to the airport.
With the gym bag on my lap and Grandpa’s note tucked neatly in my pocket, I smile for the first time in days.
I was free. And for the first time in my life, I knew exactly what that meant.