10/16/2025
I Hired a Crew to Fix My Roof, They Found a Hidden Box in My Attic - But What They Tried to Do With It Left Me Stunned === At seventy-four, I thought I was just buying a fix for leaks. I didnât expect what theyâd uncover up there, or the choice their find would push me to make. My nameâs Leona, Iâm 74, and a widow for nearly a decade. My husband Abram passed suddenly, a heart attack, right in the backyard while pruning the shrubs. One moment, he was muttering about dandelions; the next, he was gone. No children, no family left, just me and this old groaning house. Itâs odd, in a painful way. Iâve kept busy. My peonies, my sourdough, the library volunteer hours where teens sigh when I suggest Austenâbut nothing quiets the emptiness. And in that stillness, you notice things. The house murmurs its wear: the creak of aging wood, the steady drip-drip of water through a roof I couldnât afford to mend. Every rainstorm, Iâd lie awake, clutching my blanket, staring at the ceiling. Would tonight be the night it collapses? Would I wake under a pile of wet tiles? Finally, this spring, I scraped together enough for repairs. I hired a small roofing crew. They seemed⌠rough. Tattoos, ci******es hanging loose, the kind of men Abram wouldâve called âtrouble in work boots.â Still, I told myself, Leona, donât be quick to judge. You need a roof, not a saint. The morning they arrived, one of themâtall, with a messy ponytailâgrinned and said, âDonât fret, maâam. Weâll fix you up good.â âJust watch my peonies,â I cautioned, pulling my sweater close. The foreman laughed, âWeâll be gentle. Right, boys?â But I caught the glance they shared, like a secret I wasnât part of. I shouldâve trusted the knot in my chest right then. When their truck rolled into my driveway, my flowers shook from the music blaring out. Four of them climbed out, boots crunching the gravel. Jasper caught my eye firstâyoung, maybe mid-twenties, hair too long for roofing, but he looked at me with a quiet respect. âMorning, maâam,â he said, nodding slightly. âWeâll take care of you.â I smiled. âThank you, dear. Call me Leona.â Then came Malachi, loud and strutting like he owned the place. âWhereâs the ladder access? Weâre wasting daylight.â He barely looked at me before yelling at the others to unload. Quincy, tall and wiry with a cigarette stuck to his lip, grumbled, âThis roofâs a mess already,â before even touching the ladder. And then there was Wesley. Quiet, steady-eyed, but his silence wasnât soothing. He followed the others like a shadow. I played hostess anyway. Old habits linger. At noon, I brought out a tray of ham and cheese sandwiches with a pitcher of iced tea. Jasperâs face lit up like a kid on his birthday. âYou didnât need to do this, maâam.â âNonsense,â I said. âHard work earns a meal.â He took his plate carefully, murmuring thanks. Malachi, though, rolled his eyes. âWhat is this, a picnic? Weâre not kids, lady.â Something in me stung. Abram wouldâve said, Donât let them get to you, Lee. But the way Malachi sneered, grabbing a sandwich without a thank youâit left a bitter taste no tea could wash away. Quincy smirked, âLooks like we got a house mom, Mal.â âYeah,â Malachi snorted, biting into his sandwich. âMaybe sheâll read us bedtime stories.â Wesley ate quietly, watching but not stepping in. Jasper shot me an apologetic look. âIgnore them. They just⌠talk big.â I forced a smile. But as I stood there, tray in hand, a uneasy feeling crept up my spine. These werenât just men patching a roof. Something in their sharp, empty laughter told me they were after more than tiles and nails. And later, Iâd learn I was right. âMaâam?â Jasperâs voice snapped me back. He looked almost sheepish. âCould I⌠maybe have another sandwich?â By the third day, the hammering felt almost reliable. I was in the kitchen, kneading dough, when a shout cut through the steady thump of nails. âHoly cow!â Malachiâs voice. Too loud. Too eager. I wiped flour off my hands and shuffled outside, dust trailing me like mist. The men froze when I appeared. Quincy spoke first, too fast, too smooth. âNothing, maâam. Just a rotten beam. Weâll fix it.â But Iâm no fool. I saw itâthe corner of something they were too quick to hide. An old wooden box, shoved under a tarp. My breath hitched. That box. Abramâs box. I knew it at once. The woodâs grain, the brass edges. Heâd shown it to me once, years ago, days before his heart gave out. âLee,â heâd whispered, gripping my hand with fading strength, âif Iâm gone, itâs yours. Youâll know when to open it.â I never looked inside. Maybe I was scared. Maybe I trusted it wasnât time yet.... (continue reading in the 1st comment)
