At 82 and living alone, I thought I knew everything about my quiet neighborhood until a stormy night revealed a buried secret in my backyard.
That night, as thunder rumbled and wind howled, a crash from the living room startled me. The front window had shattered, and rain poured in. After covering the mess, I called Carl, the handyman, to fix it the next morning.
Carl arrived quickly, but his usual chatty demeanor was replaced with a tense silence. I noticed something off, but didn’t press him. After hours of work, he fixed the window, and I paid him, though he seemed burdened.
Later, while gardening, I discovered something strange—a buried metal box. Inside were sparkling jewels, and I began to suspect Carl had hidden them. Fearing the worst, I called the police.
When they arrived, they confirmed my suspicion wasn’t true. The jewelry belonged to Carl’s late mother, and he had hidden it to protect it from his wife, who was selling off valuable items. Carl had only intended to keep it safe.
The next day, Carl apologized, and I reassured him. The storm that had caused so much chaos had passed, leaving behind a reminder of the lengths people go to protect what they love. I planted flowers where the box had been buried, a small tribute to the unexpected turn of events.