When my grandmother passed away, my relatives gathered for one purpose: to find her will. They filled her home with tense silence, each one hoping they would finally inherit something from the woman they had distanced themselves from for years. While they argued and waited impatiently for the lawyer, I focused on Berta—Grandma’s loyal old dog. She had been Grandma’s companion for more than a decade, and seeing her confused and grieving broke my heart. When my family insisted they had no interest in keeping her, I took Berta home despite my apartment’s restrictions. Grandma had always said Berta had a gentle soul and that kindness shown to her would never go unnoticed. At that moment, taking the dog felt like the only thing Grandma herself would have wanted.
Life settled into a quiet routine. I worked long shifts as a nurse and came home to Berta’s soft presence. She curled beside me when I was exhausted and followed me around as if trying to remind me I wasn’t alone. My family remained convinced that Grandma had hidden her wealth somewhere, and when the lawyer revealed that no one would inherit anything, the disappointment was evident. Days later, my mother showed up at my door, insisting I was hiding something. I assured her that all Grandma had left me was Berta, but she stormed away unconvinced. Later that night, as I comforted Berta, I noticed something unusual on her collar. Inside a small hidden compartment was a tiny key accompanied by an engraved address that led to a locker at the train station.
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