The house was in chaos.
Voices clashed, rising over the hum of old arguments resurfaced.
Inside, relatives I barely recognized argued over who deserved what.
It was as though the reading of Grandma’s will had torn open old wounds.
“She really didn’t leave anything for anyone,” someone muttered, disbelief mingling with indignation.
I felt like a ghost, floating between the lines of a story already told.
The weight of what wasn’t said, what wasn’t given, pressed heavily on my chest.
I needed air.
Slipping out to the back porch, I found a moment of stillness.
Berta, Grandma’s old dog, sat there, her eyes fixed on the doorway.
She didn’t bark or whine, just sat with a patience that spoke volumes.
Her presence was a balm, a reminder of the love that still lingered in the spaces Grandma had once filled.
I knelt beside her, adjusting her worn collar, seeking comfort in the familiar motion.
My fingers brushed against something unusual.
“What’s this, girl?” I murmured.
Berta wagged her tail slowly, as if to say, ‘You’ll see.’
Turning the collar over, my heart skipped a beat.
There, hidden beneath the layers of leather, was a small, delicate locket.
It was a secret only Berta knew, and now, it was mine too.
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