When Grandpa died, my brother inherited the money, car, and house.
I got 38 homing pigeons.
He laughed.
“All those trips to care for Grandpa, and this is what you get—bird mess and feed.”
I was heartbroken, but I couldn’t abandon the birds Grandpa loved.
Then, two weeks later, a strange silver-gray pigeon landed on the porch with a tiny leather tube tied to its leg.
My brother saw it and suddenly went pale.
“Don’t touch that!”
I opened the tube anyway.
Inside was a brass key, a tag marked 17, and a note from Grandpa:
“You kept them flying. Now see where they were flying to.”
My brother lunged toward me.
“Give me the key!”
That was when I realized the pigeons weren’t the worthless inheritance he thought they were.
Grandpa had planned everything.