By the time I reached 17, I had exactly 17 postcards stacked carefully in a neat bundle.
That very year, my grandma passed away, leaving me shattered and burdened with unanswered mysteries.
I placed the cards in a box, assuming they were just sentimental trinkets, and carried on with life. College, work, marriage, and children came in their season, and the postcards became nothing more than a distant memory from my youth.
Two decades later, while helping my parents clear the attic, I discovered a jar marked “For You.” Inside lay the very same postcards my grandma had once given me. Intrigued, I flipped one over — and froze. On the back was handwriting that wasn’t just a birthday wish. It was a clue.
