10/01/2025
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 didn’t expect what they’d uncover up there, or the choice their find would push me to make. My name’s Leona, I’m 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. It’s odd, in a painful way. I’ve kept busy. My peonies, my sourdough, the library volunteer hours where teens sigh when I suggest Austen—but 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 couldn’t afford to mend. Every rainstorm, I’d 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 would’ve called “trouble in work boots.” Still, I told myself, Leona, don’t be quick to judge. You need a roof, not a saint. The morning they arrived, one of them—tall, with a messy ponytail—grinned and said, “Don’t fret, ma’am. We’ll fix you up good.” “Just watch my peonies,” I cautioned, pulling my sweater close. The foreman laughed, “We’ll be gentle. Right, boys?” But I caught the glance they shared, like a secret I wasn’t part of. I should’ve 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 first—young, maybe mid-twenties, hair too long for roofing, but he looked at me with a quiet respect. “Morning, ma’am,” he said, nodding slightly. “We’ll take care of you.” I smiled. “Thank you, dear. Call me Leona.” Then came Malachi, loud and strutting like he owned the place. “Where’s the ladder access? We’re wasting daylight.” He barely looked at me before yelling at the others to unload. Quincy, tall and wiry with a cigarette stuck to his lip, grumbled, “This roof’s a mess already,” before even touching the ladder. And then there was Wesley. Quiet, steady-eyed, but his silence wasn’t 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. Jasper’s face lit up like a kid on his birthday. “You didn’t need to do this, ma’am.” “Nonsense,” I said. “Hard work earns a meal.” He took his plate carefully, murmuring thanks. Malachi, though, rolled his eyes. “What is this, a picnic? We’re not kids, lady.” Something in me stung. Abram would’ve said, Don’t let them get to you, Lee. But the way Malachi sneered, grabbing a sandwich without a thank you—it left a bitter taste no tea could wash away. Quincy smirked, “Looks like we got a house mom, Mal.” “Yeah,” Malachi snorted, biting into his sandwich. “Maybe she’ll read us bedtime stories.” Wesley ate quietly, watching but not stepping in. Jasper shot me an apologetic look. “Ignore them. They just… talk big.” I forced a smile. But as I stood there, tray in hand, a uneasy feeling crept up my spine. These weren’t just men patching a roof. Something in their sharp, empty laughter told me they were after more than tiles and nails. And later, I’d learn I was right. “Ma’am?” Jasper’s voice snapped me back. He looked almost sheepish. “Could I… maybe have another sandwich?” 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. “Holy cow!” Malachi’s 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. “Nothing, ma’am. Just a rotten beam. We’ll fix it.” But I’m no fool. I saw it—the corner of something they were too quick to hide. An old wooden box, shoved under a tarp. My breath hitched. That box. Abram’s box. I knew it at once. The wood’s grain, the brass edges. He’d shown it to me once, years ago, days before his heart gave out. “Lee,” he’d whispered, gripping my hand with fading strength, “if I’m gone, it’s yours. You’ll know when to open it.” I never looked inside. Maybe I was scared. Maybe I trusted it wasn’t time yet.... (continue reading in the 1st comment)
