After Grandpa died, I thought grief would be the hardest part — until he started visiting me in dreams, repeating one message: “Check the red box in my basement.” I brushed it off at first, but the dreams wouldn’t stop.
I was 22, stuck in a dead-end cashier job, barely affording rent. Life used to be different — Grandpa raised my brother Tyler and me after our parents died. But when we turned 18 and discovered a small inheritance, Tyler took it all and vanished. Grandpa never talked about him again.
Two weeks after Grandpa passed, I finally went to the basement. I found the red box, just like in the dream — but it only held fishing gear. Disappointed, I turned to leave and accidentally knocked over some boxes… revealing a hidden safe.
After several failed attempts, I tried my birthday — and it opened. Inside: piles of cash and a note in Grandpa’s handwriting:
“For my boy. Build something good.”
That money became Peter’s Coffee, a cozy café filled with Grandpa’s memory — our photo by the lake, his lucky reel on the wall, even that red box by the register.
I never heard from Tyler, but I hoped he was okay. One night, while closing up, I looked around and whispered, “I did it, Grandpa.”
And in that still moment, I swear I heard him say: “You did good, kiddo.”