Marin was twenty-seven when she buried the only family she had truly known—her grandfather, Harold. He had raised her since she was two, after her parents died in a car accident. Her memories of them were little more than photographs, but Grandpa filled every absence with warmth. Their modest home was full of routines that made her feel safe: walks to school, notes in her lunchbox, bedtime stories every night. He never let her see how heavy life was for him—only how loved she was.
The day after the funeral, an envelope appeared on her doorstep. Inside was a brass key and a letter in her grandfather’s handwriting. He explained that the key opened a hidden compartment beneath a rug in the attic, where he had left a truth he could never bring himself to share. In the attic, Marin found legal documents and another letter. As she read, her understanding of her past shifted.
