The lawyer reached under the table and lifted a dusty box.
Inside were five rusty clocks. Old. Tarnished. Useless.
The room burst into laughter.
My brother slapped his knee.
My mother pressed her hand to her mouth to hide a smile.
My sister-in-law whispered loudly, “Well… that’s embarrassing.”
My face burned. I felt humiliated, betrayed, foolish. Tears gathered and spilled before I could stop them.
The lawyer, however, didn’t laugh. Instead, he handed me a small sealed envelope taped to the side of the box.
“Your grandmother wanted you to open this privately,” he said, though the entire family leaned in, eager for more entertainment.
My hands shook as I slid my finger under the flap. A small handwritten note fell into my palm — her handwriting, wobbly but unmistakably hers.
I read aloud, because everyone was already staring:
“My sweet girl,
These clocks are not what they seem.
Look deeper, look carefully, and trust what only you know.”
My brother snickered again. “Maybe they turn back time?”
