While cleaning out the attic today, I found an old wooden box hidden behind some dusty furniture. The box was locked, but the key was taped to the bottom. Inside, I discovered a stack of yellowed letters tied with a faded blue ribbon.
The top letter caught my attention immediately. It was addressed to "My Dearest Elizabeth" and dated 1945. The handwriting was elegant and flowing, each word carefully crafted. As I read, I felt my heart quicken. This was a love letter, written by my great-grandfather to my great-grandmother during the war.
The letter spoke of their secret meetings in the garden, of stolen moments beneath the willow tree. It told of promises made and dreams shared. But what struck me most was the mention of a hidden treasure, something they had buried together in the garden on the night before he left for war.
I spent the rest of the day reading through the letters, each one revealing more of their story. They had planned to marry when he returned, but something had happened. The letters stopped abruptly, and there was no mention of what became of their plans.
As I was putting the letters away, a small envelope fell out from between the pages. It was sealed with wax, and on the front was written: "To be opened by the one who finds the garden." My hands trembled as I broke the seal.
The letter inside was short but changed everything. It revealed that my great-grandfather had survived the war but had been unable to return. He had left something precious in the garden, something that would explain everything. I know what I must do now. Tomorrow, I will search the garden for this final piece of the puzzle.