Heart pounding, I raced to his apartment, imagining the worst. But when I walked in, he wasn’t hurt—he was trembling with excitement. The box sat open on the table, its false bottom pried up.
“Look,” he whispered.
Beneath the wood panel was a brittle, yellowed envelope with my grandfather’s handwriting. Inside was a deed—legal ownership of a private vault containing unreleased master recordings from legendary jazz musicians, forgotten blues icons, and early rock pioneers. Ethan had already checked with experts. Their jaws dropped. The catalog was worth hundreds of millions.
My cousins’ inheritance suddenly looked like spare change.
Grandpa hadn’t left me trash. He’d left me the most valuable part of his life—his passion, his history, his secret treasure.
I sank into a chair and cried, not just from shock, but from the overwhelming realization: he had trusted me, understood me, loved me in a way no one else did.
Now, finally, I could feel that love as clearly as if he were still here.
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