At Grandpa’s funeral, 18-year-old Dahlia felt isolated as her family fumed over the meager $1 inheritance they each received. But when a stranger handed her a mysterious note, Dahlia found herself drawn into a puzzle only she could solve.
I stood by the graveside, feeling the cold grip of loss. My black dress felt tight, as if everything around me was suffocating. The priest’s words blurred into the wind, but I hardly listened. Instead, the heaviness of grief settled over me like a weight I couldn’t shake.
It should have been a day of mourning, but instead, the air buzzed with resentment. Grandpa had left everyone just one dollar in his will, and my family was furious.
I wasn’t angry, though. Just numb. Grandpa wasn’t supposed to be gone. He was the one person who saw me—truly saw me. To the rest of the family, I was the extra kid, the one who didn’t quite fit. But Grandpa made me feel like I mattered.
I glanced down at the scattered flowers on his coffin, and my red rose stood out against the white daisies that everyone else had placed. It was different, just like Grandpa had always made me feel.
Behind me, I heard Aunt Nancy hiss, “One dollar? That’s all we get? He had money, and we get nothing but a lousy dollar?”
Uncle Vic let out a bitter laugh. “He did this to spite us. Typical.”
Mom crossed her arms, eyes narrowing. “He always had his favorites. Dahlia was his little pet. I bet she got something we don’t know about.”
I stiffened as Aunt Nancy’s gaze pierced through me. “What did he leave you, Dahlia? You must’ve gotten something.”
“I didn’t,” I said flatly. “I got the same as all of you.”
Mom’s grip on my shoulder tightened. “Are you sure? You spent all that time with him. Maybe he told you something.”
Her words stirred memories—Grandpa’s playful stories about hidden treasure, the butterscotch candies he always carried. He used to wink at me and say, “One day, kiddo, I’m leaving you a real treasure.”
It was just a joke between us—or at least, I thought it was.
I turned back to the coffin. “What Grandpa left me was his love and his stories. That’s worth more than money.”
“No one cares about that!” Mom snapped. “Where’s all his money?”
I shrugged. I didn’t know, and honestly, I didn’t care. To me, the only loss was Grandpa. But to them, his death was just another opportunity to argue over money.
“They know something,” Uncle Vic muttered, his words dripping with suspicion.
Their voices grew louder and angrier until, realizing there was nothing more to be gained, they stormed off. I could hear their bickering fade into the distance like vultures circling. It made me sick.
“You must be Dahlia,” came a soft voice.
I turned to see an older woman with kind eyes and a worn leather bag slung over her shoulder. She smiled, as if sharing a secret with me.
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