Lena's answer came quicker than she expected.
At the farthest corner of the attic sat an oak box, squat and sturdy, its wood dark with time. Unlike the other trunks, this one bore no label, no carvings, no sign it belonged to anyone. What it did have was a lock—old, rusted, and stubborn, as though it hadn't been touched in decades.
Her fingers trembled as she fit the key into the lock. For a breathless second, she thought it would resist. Then, with a sharp click that echoed in the stillness, the lock turned. The box creaked open, revealing a single object inside: a leather-bound journal.
It was worn, its corners softened with age, the leather cracked from years of use. On the cover, pressed faintly but still legible, were the initials E.A.
Her grandmother's initials.
Lena's curiosity burned hotter. She carried the journal to the attic window, brushing dust from its surface. Slowly, she opened it. Instead of the diary entries she expected recipes, family stories, daily musings she found page after page of sketches. Forests drawn in confident strokes. Rivers twisting across the paper. Familiar landmarks, captured with meticulous detail.
At the very end, an "X" marked a spot near a cliff she knew from local hikes. Beside it, in faint handwriting, were words that made her skin prickle:
"The door lies beyond the vines. Only the key can open it."
Lena stared at the journal, her heart thundering. This wasn't just a record it was a map. A secret one.
Why had her grandmother hidden it away?