I inherited my parents’ old house after they passed, and renovating it felt like a way to keep them close. The place needed updating, so I hired a contractor to redo the kitchen. Yesterday, he called me over urgently after opening a hollow section of wall.
Inside was a small, dust-covered safe, hidden between the studs. My heart pounded as I opened it. There were only three things inside: two simple bands, a ferry ticket to the island we used to visit every summer, and a sealed letter.
The ticket was dated years before I was born. The letter read, “If you have found this, the plan failed,” signed by my aunt — the one who moved abroad long before I was born and lost touch with us after my parents died.
Confused, I showed it to my uncle that evening. As soon as he saw her name, he grew quiet before explaining everything.
Before I was born, my mom and aunt had planned to start a small business together on that island. The bands weren’t wedding rings, but a symbol of their partnership. The ferry ticket was for the trip they were meant to take.
But then my mom found out she was pregnant with me and chose to stay. My aunt left alone.
The letter wasn’t dramatic — it simply meant that if the safe was ever opened, their shared dream had never come true.
