“Take care of the bees,” Grandpa had said. I rolled my eyes. What kind of inheritance was that? But Aunt Daphne refused to let me skip out, so one afternoon, I grudgingly pulled on the bee suit and headed to the apiary.
As I worked, something crinkled under my glove. Buried in the hive was a map—Grandpa’s map, the one from his ridiculous treasure stories. My pulse pounded. Was this his idea of a joke?
Against my better judgment, I followed it into the woods. Hours later, I stood before a crumbling cabin, its door creaking in the wind. Inside, a metal box waited. The note inside stopped me cold: “The real treasure? You’ll know when you’re ready.”
Frustrated, I trekked back—only to get hopelessly lost. Night swallowed the forest, and for the first time, I felt truly alone. But as I huddled under a tree, something Grandpa once said came back: “Hard work tastes sweeter than honey.”
When dawn broke, I finally understood. The apiary wasn’t a punishment—it was a test. Now, years later, my thriving honey business is proof that Grandpa’s “silly” gift was the wisest one I’ve ever received.
