When my wealthy grandfather passed away, the whole family gathered to hear the will. My cousins sat up straighter with every name the attorney read — already imagining new houses, cars, and vacations as they were handed the bulk of his fortune.
Then came my turn.
“All that remains for her,” the attorney said, “is his old vinyl record storage box.”
The room went silent — and then erupted with laughter.
“Enjoy his trash box,” one cousin sneered.
I left without saying a word, clutching the worn leather box that still smelled like Grandpa’s study — wood, dust, and faint pipe tobacco. It was all I had left of him, so I kept it on a shelf for years.
Six years later, I met Ethan, who shared my love for music. One evening, I gave him the box, thinking he’d actually use it.
That night, close to midnight, he called — panicked and breathless.
“Get here. Now.”
When I arrived, he pointed to the box sitting open on the table. The false bottom had been pried up.
Inside was a yellowed envelope in my grandfather’s handwriting.
It contained a deed — legal ownership of a private vault filled with unreleased master recordings from legendary jazz, blues, and early rock musicians.
Experts later confirmed it: the catalog was worth hundreds of millions.
My cousins inherited money.
Grandpa left me his legacy.
