I walked in, and the smell reminded me of Grandpa’s morning routine. Tears stung my eyes. But then I spotted a woman behind the counter, maybe mid-50s, with sharp eyes.
I introduced myself and got to the point.
“You’re his youngest girl,” she said. “He told me you’d come, eventually. He described you exactly.”
She nodded once, as if that confirmed everything.
“You’re his youngest girl.”
The woman then reached under the counter and pulled out a small key.
“He said you were the only one who’d follow it through,” she added.
I picked up the key.
“What does it open?”
“If he didn’t tell you, how would I know?” she said, shrugging.
