Heirloom

The air was thick with the scent of dust. This room hadn't been touched in years. Much like the person who'd owned it, it had long since been laid to rest.

It had been four weeks since Grandpa had passed and three since he was finally cremated. Only a few days ago, Maya found that she, his only grandchild, had inherited his house and belongings, much to the ire of her aunts and uncles. While they argued at the will reading that the estate should be divided up equally, she would have argued that their time should have as well. They should have helped change his sheets and bedclothes. Helped make his meals. Been there when he breathed his last. Felt ashamed by the sense of relief when he did.

She was grateful she now had somewhere she didn't have to pay rent on. She didn't think about the mountains of objects and the attached sentiment that took up space like layers of primordial sediment to become the bedrock of the earth. A planet full of memories, here in this house.

Yellowing receipts filled the area that Maya assumed was once an office. Layers of dust covered surfaces like a skin. This could take ages.

A red bandanna was tied around her face to combat the dust. It was funny; for as long as she could remember, Grandpa had hated the colour red. He'd be seething if he saw her current getup.

A small leather bound book stood out from the wreckage. It looked new, free from the scurf of memory and the more she stared at it, the more out of place it looked.

She peeled back the cover with curiosity. Her mind scrolled through memories of the previous weeks, months even. Grandpa was bedridden and couldn't have made it out of the house on his own, let alone down the street to buy a notebook without her knowing. He was at an age where Amazon still elicited visions of a rainforest, so him ordering the book online was inconceivable.

She immediately recognised his scrawl, underestimating how hard the grip on her throat would feel. She missed him, despite their last moments together being hard.

"M, shed. East of drills, south of hammers. Crowbar needed. I'm sorry."

The last two words threw her off. What was he sorry for? As for the rest, she guessed that they were directions, but to what....they might as well have been in Sanskrit.

She flipped a few pages ahead, noticing the jagged edges of pages torn out. What had he been up to?

Still, discovering an answer to her questions was a welcome alternative to clearing out his office and encouraging an asthma attack.

She strode through the hallways of his house until she reached the back door. The sun shone against the greenery he'd spent decades cultivating with care. In amidst a garden of every conceivable colour, his shed stood out.

Maya could've estimated how long it had been since the shed had anyone inside, but she knew she'd be wrong. From all of the unfinished projects to the anthills of sawdust to the tins covered in yellow-brown layers of varnish, the space before her felt untouched, despite knowing otherwise. He loved it in here before his health deteriorated.

The hammers were easily found, all neat in a row against a pinboard wall. She could see some drills, aging from modern cordless ones to a giant drill press that looked like it belonged in the 50s.

Which drills were landmarks here? There were a few scattered throughout the shed, all she could do was take a guess and use the drill press as her guide.

An earsplitting squeeeeeaaaaaaaak sliced through the room as she stepped onto a loose floorboard.

East of the drills, south of the hammers. Crowbar needed. This was it.

Grabbing a crowbar, Maya wedged it where the board had risen. It didn't take much effort to pop open; considering Grandpa was leading her to it, he probably didn't worry about sealing it back down.

In the chasm, she could only just make out the edges of a metal box. Reaching down, it was like her arm was being swallowed. Thankfully, she felt the cold edges and tightened her grip around it, pulling it out.

The box had a combination lock on it, presenting another barrier. 6 numbers, infinite possibilities.

She tried his birthday- 1, 0, 0, 7, 3, 4. The lid wouldn't budge.

Dejection sunk in; it was fun for a while, trying to uncover one last mystery left by Grandpa rather than spending the day cleaning out his memories. Reminded her of the treasure hunting games he played with her when she was little.

Inspiration shot through her mind. The note was addressed to her. Maybe the combination had nothing to do with him at all.

She tried her birthday- 0, 5, 1, 1, 9, 6. Still nothing.

Thoughts travelled back to the note; yes it was for her, but what identifying markers did she have besides her birthday?

When she realised, she felt stupid.

She twisted the first and second dials to make 13, the third to 1, the fourth and fifth to make 25 and the last to 1.

M-A-Y-A. 13, 1, 25, 1. Her name, letters corresponding to their numerical place within the alphabet.

Click.

She lifted the lid, unprepared for what lay before her. 10 wads of 50 dollar notes, all sitting pretty.

Her fingers flipped through the notes with excitement that felt criminal. There must have been about $20,000 just sitting there, in this box in the shed for god knows how long. The possibilities that opened up before her with this discovery were endless; her mind wandered to saving up for a house before remembering that Grandpa's house now belonged to her and was owned outright. She could buy a new car, an actually new car that wasn't dinged up. She could go back to school. She could have a nest egg instead of scrambling for any dollar she could get her hands on to outrun her problems.

This was a gift. Grandpa had set her up for a long while and he did this from beyond the grave.

Maya's eyes felt glassy with tears from this kindness and how much she missed him.

She picked up the money, slowly revealing an envelope with the words "I'm Sorry" written on the front.

Seeing those words felt like the two hemispheres of her brain had become cogs in a machine, of which those words were the spanner now wedged between them. What did he have to be sorry for, after giving her this amazing gift?

The envelope was stuck down hard and tore when peeled back. Inside, a key and a neatly cut article sat; it looked recently cut.

Emblazoned on top was "60 Year Anniversary of Millionaire Heiress' Disappearance: Sister Still Determined" with a grainy, black and white picture of a young girl in a scarf and school uniform next to a coloured photo of a wealthy-looking old lady.

An irksome, uncertain feeling crept up her spine, travelling through each follicle of hair on her neck. She couldn't place why Grandpa would keep this at all, let alone why it'd be buried beneath $20,000.

She began to read.

"Charlotte Friedmann-Hammer, heiress to Friedmann's liquor empire has mourned the 60th anniversary of her sister Catherine's disappearance from Hartfield Girls Grammar on the 28th of October, 1960. Catherine Friedmann was 16 at the time, having spent the morning with friends and was thought to have skipped her classes in the afternoon."

The words had dug their claws into Maya.

"A nationwide search ensued when she could not be located for several days, however her whereabouts are still currently unknown. The only lead that police have is a letter demanding a ransom of $20,000 for Catherine's safe return. Friedmann-Hammer, now 82, has never given up on the search for her sister, launching the Red Scarf Foundation in honour of the red scarf Catherine had worn the day she had disappeared."

Maya's pupils turned to pinpricks. A red scarf. Red. Grandpa hated the colour red.

Each printed paragraph began to melt together, creating an indecipherable blur across the page. Maya turned the article over, sucker-punched by the familiar handwriting on the back.

"Garden, in front of pansies. Shovel. Next move up to you."

A lump of anxiety settled in her throat and began to poison her insides. Each bead of sweat became a cold nail, scraping her skin. Nonetheless, her eyes darted around the room, trying to seek out a shovel.

The sky was darker now; sunlight was peeking out between the leaves of the trees in Grandpa's garden. There was an irony in how messy he kept his office and how meticulously groomed his plants were. It felt shameful to be taking a shovel to it, however that was the next piece of this puzzle.

The blade snapped through roots, sinking into the dirt. Each time she dug deeper, it became denser and harder, like the ratio of clay to dirt was tilting out of balance. Clumps of soil flew through the air while stripes and scuffs adorned her body. She didn't care. Maya was running on pure adrenaline and dread.

CLUNK

Something solid.

Kneeling, she frantically wiped away dirt. She felt a cold, flat surface underneath. It felt like another metal box, encased in soil like a forgotten jewel. Upon closer inspection, a handle sat on top.

She began to pull. Spider cracks began to form in the dirt, but it wouldn't budge. She wrapped her other hand around it, trying to lift it through her feet rather than just her arms. Feeling the box slowly loosening from the dirt helped her ignore the ache of her muscles and tendons being stretched beyond their capacity.

The momentum of pulling the box free was nearly enough to make her fly back into the side of the hole. She threw the box up onto the grass, scrambling up after to get a better view of the contents.

She pulled the key out of her pocket. She thought that something that had been that compacted in the dirt meant that the lock would have been clogged but sure enough, it opened without a fight.

Inside, article after article varying in size, shape and colour lay beside what looked like a bundle of garbage bags. Each headline followed the same theme- "Detectives Try DNA Testing on Friedmann Belongings", "Friedmann Patriarch Dies; Daughter Still Missing", "Friedmann Case Cold But Not Forgotten", "Friedmann Family Pays Ransom for Daughter's Safe Return". The paper of all that she flipped through became more and more yellow, tarnished by time.

One sheet of paper stood out; it wasn't a clipping. It had a logo at the top of it for Friedmann's Liquor. Underneath was a single handwritten line.

"Please give back our daughter. You have the money, please bring her home."

It dawned on Maya that perhaps Grandpa wasn't just leaving her the house and money in his will. He had entrusted his memories and secrets to her. She didn't know why he'd collected all of these articles and hidden them, why he had this letter from this rich family or why he had chosen her to bear the weight of this. She did know there were now cracks in her view of her dear old Grandpa.

She pawed over the garbage bag. It was rolled up tight with no discernable beginning or end. She pulled at the plastic, hoping that each tug would loosen and unravel it all. Sure enough, one pull is all it took to take it all apart.

She peered inside, feeling all the blood drain from her face and the air being squeezed from her lungs. This was it, the secret Grandpa had buried. The strings attached to the house and the money he'd left. A toxic family heirloom.

A red scarf, sitting at the bottom of the bag.