My cousin Brent was furious. Outside the lawyer’s office, he cornered me.
“What did you do to get the farm? Sweet-talk the old man?”
Farming had never been part of my plan. But the pull to return was undeniable. The next morning, I drove out to the farm. The house looked the same—white paint peeling, wind chimes clinking in the breeze. But my eyes went straight to the barn.
It had always been locked. As a child, I imagined it full of broken tools or dangerous things—snakes, bees, secrets. Grandpa never explained why I couldn’t go inside. But now, standing before it, I noticed something strange. The barn was weathered, sagging—but the padlock was new. Shiny. Well-oiled. Recently placed.
Curiosity burned. I tore through the farmhouse, searching for a key. After hours of rifling through drawers and cupboards, I found it tucked inside an old coffee tin behind a stack of recipe cards. The silver key felt warm in my hand.
When the lock clicked open, my breath caught. The doors groaned. Dust swirled in the sunlight. The scent of cedar and hay filled the air. At first glance, it looked ordinary—tarps draped over bulky shapes, crates stacked in neat rows. But the orderliness felt intentional.
I pulled back the first tarp and froze.
Beneath it sat a hand-carved wooden chest, smooth and polished, decorated with tiny stones. Around it were wooden toys—miniature horses, wagons, little carved people. As kids, we’d received toys from Grandpa, always assuming they were store-bought. Now I knew: he had made them himself. Every single one.
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