Whenever I need to get away, I pack a bag and head up to my dad’s old cabin in the woods.
For years, I’ve been doing this, chopping wood to feed into the stove, watching the snow fall, and reading by candlelight.
“Thanks, Dad,” I said to his framed photograph.
It was hanging a bit askew, so I straightened it.
Something fell from behind it.
A letter:
“Dear Son,
This cabin actually belonged to my brother Tom. He’s buried under the floor.
Love,
Dad”
So, I thanked my Uncle Tom, tossed another log on the fire, and made some coffee.