A few years ago, my grandmother passed away unexpectedly, leaving the family in shock. She had always been the heart of our gatherings, full of wisdom and captivating stories. As I went through her belongings to sort them out, I discovered a hidden wooden box beneath her bed. Inside, I found letters from a man named Henri, a former lover from her past, and a pocket watch. The letters spoke of love, war, and a secret meeting place, but the last letter was unfinished.
Curious, I tracked down the location—a secluded public garden on the town’s outskirts. While exploring, I came across a gravestone covered in ivy. The name was “Henri Dupont.” My heart sank. That evening, I received a message from an unknown number: “Thank you for finding my secret.” I tried calling, but the number was disconnected.
I’ve never been sure if it was a prank or something more, but since then, I’ve felt a strange presence in my home, as if the story of my grandmother and Henri is still unfolding.
