The Secret Beneath the Roses
At 82, I thought I knew every corner of my quiet neighborhood—until a violent storm proved me wrong. Wind howled, thunder shook the walls, and my front window shattered, scattering glass across the floor. The next morning, I called Carl, the neighborhood handyman, to fix it. Usually warm and talkative, he seemed distracted that day, working quickly and avoiding eye contact.
That evening, while tidying up the garden, I spotted freshly disturbed soil near the back fence. Curiosity tugged at me, and I dug until my fingers hit something metal—a rusty old box hidden beneath the earth. Inside, nestled among dust and age, was a dazzling collection of jeweled heirlooms. My heart pounded. Carl had been the only one near that spot. Was he hiding stolen treasure?
