Out tumbled two items: a tarnished brass key with an intricate, antique bow, and a small, folded piece of thick parchment paper, yellowed with age.
I unfolded the paper with trembling fingers. Written in Fiona’s sharp, precise handwriting—a hand she had possessed long before arthritis twisted her fingers—was a letter dated fifteen years prior.
“My dearest Mabel,” it read.
“If you are reading this, I have finally gone to rest beside my beloved husband. For years, my own children believed I had nothing left to my name after the farm failed. They assumed I was a burden, a woman relying entirely on their pity, which is why they left me in the dark.”
“They did not know that my grandfather left me a private safety deposit box at the Old National Bank in downtown Columbus—box number 412. Inside, you will find the original land deeds to forty acres of prime commercial real estate along the highway bypass, purchased decades ago before the developers came.”
