No internet, no noise, no distractions. That was the dream. I moved to a quiet, coastal property overlooking the Mediterranean with one goal: to disconnect and reset. Just the sea breeze, the rustle of olive trees, and complete solitude.
Then, unexpectedly, came the animals.
First was the donkey. He wandered onto the land like he’d lived there all his life. I gave him some water, assuming he’d move on. He didn’t. Then came the dog—friendly, energetic, and eager for companionship. Finally, a cautious, wide-eyed cat arrived, watching me from the shadows before curling up on the doorstep like she belonged.
I named them Tiberius, Zito, and Minx. I didn’t adopt them—they simply stayed. And strangely, I didn’t mind. It felt like they’d chosen me.
One morning, we hiked up to a ridge I hadn’t explored before. The cat nestled inside my jacket, the dog trotted ahead, and the donkey carried a small pack. As we reached the summit, something unusual caught my eye: a weathered stone marker partially buried in the earth.
Next to it was a sealed envelope.
Curious, I brushed away the dust and read the handwriting on the front. It was unmistakably my grandmother’s. She passed away years ago, but she often spoke of this region as a place filled with history and mystery. I’d assumed those were just stories—until now.
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