That night, my phone nearly leapt off the table with her urgent call.
“Get over here. Now.”
Carla’s voice was sharp with excitement. Breathless, I hurried across the hall and found her standing in her kitchen, my grandmother’s plant on the counter. In her hand was a tiny rusted key wrapped in an old handkerchief, my name stitched into the corner with crooked blue thread.
“I found it in the soil,” she whispered, still wide-eyed.
In that instant, my chest filled with something hard to describe — half disbelief, half a sudden weight of understanding. Grandma hadn’t just given me a plant. She had given me a puzzle.
Letters in the Yard
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