Not late at night, walking back from the pub. It rained. A friend paused, lifted his foot above a snail, and remarked, “I hate snails,” before stomping on it.
It was a little silver locket, not a snail. We both froze. The metallic crunch under his boot was not a shell crack.
He looked down, perplexed, and nudged it with his shoe toe. I bent down and grabbed it. The rain wiped away some of the sludge, and I saw a tiny engraving of a rose and “E.M.”
“Bro, that’s not a snail,” I remarked, wiping it on my hoodie.
He squinted in the faint light. “Wait… “That’s a necklace?” he asked, backing up. “Yeah.
It looks old.” I opened. A faded black-and-white snapshot showed two 7- or 8-year-olds laughing and holding hands. On the other side came a little, delicately folded paper.
It was damp and falling apart, yet I unfurled it. “Come find me at the place where the roses used to grow.”
“Dude,” I murmured, scanning. “This feels movie-like.”
My pal Reggie laughed uneasily.
“You think someone planted that? Something like a treasure hunt? “No idea.
That you almost stepped on it because you detest snails is odd. Maybe karma exists.”
I remembered the locket after laughing. Reggie raised his hood and stated he was going home, but I put the locket in my pocket.
The rose-growing location message kept coming to mind. I told my Nan the next day. I thought she might know since she’s lived there since she was a youngster.
She paused when I showed her the locket. Her eyes softened as she traced the rose. “I haven’t seen this in years,” she whispered.
“Eliza owned this.”
“Eliza?” Leaning in, I asked. Eliza Mayfield. Meet the sweetest girl.
She lived near the old greenhouse before it burned.”
My heart raced. “Greenhouse? Was that where roses grew?
Nan nodded slowly. “Entire garden of them. Her gardening father.
Like entering a painting—red, pink, white roses everywhere. After the fire, they never rebuilt. People said it was cursed.”
That satisfied me.
After waiting till dawn, I went to the greenhouse site. After climbing over a damaged fence and pushing through vegetation, I spotted the old stone foundation half-sunk in the earth. It was quiet.
Just birds and wind. The kind of silence that takes you back in time. Walking around, I looked for any indication.
A moss-covered stone seat caught my eye. It was etched “E+M 1968”. That matched the locket initials.
E.M. She had to be. After sitting down, I wasn’t sure what to do.
I recalled the message: Find me. It wasn’t signed. A love letter?
Message to friend? A voice behind me suddenly spoke. Did you find it?
I turned, shocked. A cane-wielding old woman in a big coat stood a few steps distant. She had gentle, piercing eyes that saw more than they showed.
“Sorry, I didn’t mean to trespass,” I stood up hurriedly. She grinned. You’re not trespassing.
Unless you’re with her.”
“Her?”
She pointed to the bench. “Eliza. She owned that locket.
I think you should return it.”
I held out my pocket. Do you know her location? A woman nodded.
The story doesn’t end here — it continues on the next page.
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