Every year on my birthday, my grandfather gave me a single green plastic soldier. No card, no explanation—just a smile. By sixteen, I had a neat row of them lined up, though I never understood why.
When I turned twenty-six, my mother handed me the last soldier from his hospital bed. Days later, after his passing, my sister Emma noticed something I had missed: numbers etched on the bases, each marking a year. The last two carried letters—N and E. Coordinates.
Following them led us to a hidden cottage in the woods. An old friend of Grandpa’s greeted me: “Henry said you’d find your way here.” Inside, I discovered a retreat built like a living puzzle. Locks, riddles, cipher wheels—each step revealed pieces of his life: photos, letters, recordings, and finally, a note.
“Life is the greatest puzzle. Stay curious. This is your place now.”
I wept. Those soldiers hadn’t been toys—they were breadcrumbs. With Emma and Walter, I opened the cottage to others, calling it The Soldier’s Trail.
On opening day, I placed one soldier on the counter. Grandpa’s legacy lives on.
