I Was Sad That My Grandfather Only Left Me an Old Apiary until I Looked into the Beehives — Story of the Day

My late Grandpa, the man who spun tales of buried treasure and promised me the world, had left me with the biggest letdown: a dusty, old apiary. Who leaves their grandchild an insect-infested shack? This cruel joke of an inheritance was a slap in the face until the day I peered into the beehives.

Aunt Daphne peeked over her reading glasses, her gaze cutting through the messy sprawl of clothes on my bed. “Robyn, have you packed your bag yet?”

I groaned, shoving my phone deeper under the pillow. “Later, Aunt Daphne. I’m texting Chloe.”

“Later is always ‘never’ with you,” she sighed, flinging her hands up in annoyance. “It’s almost time for the bus! Get ready!” Frustrated, Aunt Daphne started cramming books into my bag.

I peeked at the clock, the harsh red digits mocking me. 7:58 AM. Five minutes to meltdown. “Ugh, fine.” I flung myself out of bed, the tangled mess of sheets cascading to the floor.

Aunt Daphne approached my bed and bent down, scooping up a crumpled uniform shirt, smoothing it out with a practiced flick of her wrist.

“This isn’t how your Grandpa would have wanted you to live, Robyn,” she said softly. “He always talked about you blossoming into a strong, independent young lady. It’s high time you learned to take responsibility seriously.”

Aunt Daphne was going on and on… but I wasn’t having any of it.

“Have you even looked at those beehives you inherited from Grandpa? He must have had a reason for leaving you that apiary, Robyn,” she continued, placing the shirt on my dresser…

A pang of guilt shot through me. Grandpa Archie and I used to spend hours outside his cottage, the late afternoon sun dappling through the leaves as we carefully coaxed golden honey from the hives. The scent, sweet and earthy, always clung to him, a comforting reminder of those stolen moments.

But that was then. Now, the thought of sticky honey and buzzing bees held no appeal. I had bigger things on my mind — the upcoming school dance, my friend Chloe’s whispered rumors about my crush Scott liking Jessica… Ugh! And the perfect shade of blue nail polish to match my new shimmery dress.

“I know, I know, Aunt Daphne,” I mumbled, shoving myself out of the worn chair as I did my hair. “I’ll check on them, okay? Maybe tomorrow.”

“Tomorrow? Your so-called ‘tomorrow’ never comes! Grandpa Archie believed in you, Robyn. He knew you were capable of more. He wanted you to take care of the apiary. You know how much he loved his bees.”

I bit my lip. Capable of more? All I wanted was to sleep in a little late, chat with my friends, and maybe catch a glimpse of Scott from across the school cafeteria. The thought of sticky beehives and the constant threat of stings held zero appeal. No, I wasn’t going to get myself stung or stink of honey again.

“Look Aunt Daphne,” I snapped. “I appreciate it, really. But bees just aren’t my thing anymore. Besides, I have a lot of other important things to do than taking care of Grandpa’s stupid bees or harvesting honey.”

Aunt Daphne’s lips thinned into a firm line. Disappointment flickered in her eyes. But before she could respond, the blare of the school bus horn pierced the morning stillness.

“There’s the bus!” I mumbled, grabbing my phone and shoving it into my pocket. As I hurried past her, a single tear escaped, tracing a warm path down her cheek. Was I the disappointment? The one letting Grandpa Archie down? But I was too occupied that morning to think of anything else or comfort Aunt Daphne.

I slammed the front door behind me and hurried to the bus, my eyes fixed on my crush sitting by the window, fidgeting with his phone. Seeing Scott, I tend to forget everything… even my Grandpa’s beloved apiary, the only bugging legacy I inherited after his passing seven months ago.

Another morning, another day painted the same shade of predictable. Sunlight bled through the blinds, and with it came the familiar drone of Aunt Daphne launching into a lecture about responsibilities.

The last dregs of cereal clung stubbornly to the bottom of the bowl. With a practiced flick of my wrist, I sent them swirling down the drain, the clatter echoing off the empty kitchen. Plopping myself onto the couch, I snatched my phone, the familiar buzz luring me back into the digital world.

“Robyn!” Aunt Daphne’s voice cut through my focus like a butter knife through warm honey. I winced, a sliver of annoyance pricking at my bubble of contentment.

Aunt Daphne filled the doorway, her arms crossed tightly across her chest. Her gaze flicked from the dirty dishes to the phone glued to my hand, and back again.

“Look at this mess,” she barked, pointing at the overflowing sink. “You know you’re supposed to clean up after yourself.”

“Argh, not now, Aunt Daphne,” I whined, my eyes fixed on the latest gossip swirling on my social media feed.

A sigh, heavy with disappointment, escaped her lips. “Not now? When is it ever ‘now’ with you, Robyn? You spend more time engrossed in that screen than you do breathing fresh air.”

My irritation flared. “Seriously? Can’t I catch a break on a Saturday? Besides, everyone uses their phones to socialize these days.”

“Socializing and wasting time are two different things,” Aunt Daphne countered, her voice rising a notch. “There’s a whole world out there, and all you seem interested in is a tiny glowing rectangle.”

I opened my mouth to retort, but she cut me off with a hand gesture. “That’s enough. You’re grounded!”

My head snapped up. “Grounded? But why?”

“Why?” she repeated, staring daggers. “Because you can’t seem to take responsibility for anything. Because apparently, cleaning your own plate or taking care of your grandfather’s apiary is beneath you.”

The apiary. A wave of guilt washed over me, momentarily pushing the sting of being grounded aside. Grandpa Archie’s beloved beehives was now my unwanted inheritance. Useless things, buzzing with annoying insects. Why couldn’t he have left me something useful, like money for the new Xbox I desperately craved?

Aunt Daphne’s jaw clenched. “It wasn’t about giving you something you ‘wanted,’ Robyn. It was about teaching you responsibility, about connecting you to something bigger than yourself. Something your Grandpa loved…. and wanted to pass it on to you.”

“Look Aunt Daphne,” I protested. “I get it. But honestly, I’m scared of those things. What if I get stung? I don’t want to go to school looking like a chipmunk who decided to decorate his face with bubblegum.”

“You’ll be wearing protective gear,” Aunt Daphne countered. “And besides, a little fear is normal. But you can’t let it stop you from trying. When was the last time you accomplished anything worthwhile without a little sweat… or maybe a touch of honey?”

“Fine!” With a resigned sigh, I grabbed a large ceramic jar and a pair of thick rubber gloves. Aunt Daphne handed me a list of things to do that weekend, the first item blatantly clear: “Check on the apiary. Harvest honey, if ready.”

Muttering under my breath, I grabbed my bike and headed towards the apiary, located two miles away by Grandpa Archie’s old cottage. The rhythmic hum of the bees grew louder as I neared the site, sending shivers down my spine.

Hesitantly, I approached the first hive, the wooden box a grim reminder of the countless afternoons I’d spent here with Grandpa. Fear warred with a strange curiosity as I peered through the mesh netting, watching the bees flit from flower to comb in a mesmerizing dance.

Taking a deep breath, I donned the heavy gloves and lifted the lid of the hive. A wave of heat and the intense buzzing assaulted my senses. Panic threatened to engulf me, but the memory of Aunt Daphne’s ultimatum spurred me on.

Using the smoker, I gently puffed a wisp of smoke and began harvesting the golden frames brimming with honey. I transferred them to the waiting jar and harvested another. Then another.

My gloved fingers brushed against a sticky honeycomb, sending a surge of adrenaline jolting through me. The bees buzzed incessantly in this cramped box. Suddenly, a sharp prick on my hand sent me reeling back. Glancing down, I saw a fat, angry bee clinging to my glove, its stinger embedded in the rubber.

Tears welled up in my eyes. I wanted to give up. “You better not if you want your phone and freedom back, Robyn!” my conscience grounded me.

Staring at the half-filled jar, I steeled myself. One sting wasn’t going to stop me. I would finish this, if for nothing else, to prove something… to myself, maybe even to Aunt Daphne, that I’m not an idler.

Ignoring the throbbing pain in my hand, I carefully scooped another honeycomb frame, the golden liquid dripping down the sides. As I worked, a glint of something caught my eye in the corner of the hive.

Curious, I reached in and pulled out a small, weather-beaten plastic bag. With trembling fingers, I peeled it open, revealing a rolled-up piece of parchment tucked inside.

It unfolded with a crackle, revealing a faded map. A map? Weird. Sketched in a handwriting I vaguely recognized as Grandpa Archie’s, it depicted the familiar layout of the village, but also included strange markings and symbols that snaked their way towards an area in the woods beyond the known boundaries.

A thrill shot through me. Was this some kind of treasure map? A secret Grandpa Archie had kept hidden? The thought sparked a fire of excitement I hadn’t felt in weeks.

Maybe this apiary, these annoying bees, weren’t so useless after all. Maybe they were the key to something bigger, something Grandpa Archie wanted me to discover. A treasure hunt? My pulse quickened.

Carefully, I tucked the map into my pocket. The honey could wait. Right now, I had a mystery to solve.

***

My lungs burned, a harsh rasp in my chest with every labored breath as I cycled home. Leaving the half-filled jar of honey on the kitchen counter, I snuck out the back door while Aunt Daphne was busy wrangling the hens in the coop.

Reaching my bike, I threw myself onto the seat and pedaled down the dusty road, the wind whipping at my hair. Over two miles passed. I was back in the village where I lived with Grandpa Archie all those months ago before his passing.

The map led me deeper into the woods, a familiar landscape unfolding before me like a well-worn storybook. Sunlight sieved through the canopy, casting dancing shadows on the forest floor. A nostalgic smile tugged at my lips. Memories flooded back: afternoons spent with Grandpa Archie, weaving through the trees, his booming laugh echoing through the stillness.

There was that time he climbed a particularly stubborn oak, determined to reach a hidden hive high in its branches. He got tangled in a swarm of angry bees, his booming laugh turning into a startled yelp. But even covered in stings, he’d wink at me. “I gotta admit, pumpkin, that honey was worth every sting. Tasted like victory, that one did!”

I would giggle. The panic on his face, quickly replaced by sheepish amusement as he scrambled down, remained a cherished memory.

Shaking my head with a chuckle, I reached the point where the path narrowed, becoming impassable for my bike. Leaving it propped against a sturdy maple, I plunged into the undergrowth, the map clutched in one hand and a growing sense of adventure tugging at my heart.

The terrain, though challenging, felt like a familiar embrace. With each bend in the path, each twist of the stream, a memory would flicker to life, vivid as yesterday.

There, behind that twisted oak, was Grandpa’s secret blackberry patch. He’d sworn me to secrecy, a mischievous glint in his eyes, promising the juiciest berries this side of the woods. And there, perched on that very same branch, wouldn’t you know it, a giant owl!

I remembered scrambling back, heart hammering, Grandpa’s booming laughter echoing through the trees. “Just a great horned owl, sweetie,” he’d chuckle, ruffling my hair. “More scared of you than you are of it!”

A smile tugged at the corner of my lips despite the ache in my chest. Further down the path, a particularly gnarled root snagged my boot. “Watch your step, there!” Grandpa’s voice seemed to whisper in the breeze. He’d always warned me about the wily roots that seemed to have a mind of their own.

And then, a shiver danced down my spine. This was the spot, wasn’t it? The one where Grandpa used to tell me stories about the mysterious White Walker, a mythical creature that roamed these woods, leaving only a trail of frosted leaves in its wake.

Then, nestled amidst a cluster of towering pines, I saw it: the deserted gamekeeper’s house. A weathered wooden cabin, adorned with peeling paint and a sagging porch, it stood as a silent testament to times past.

Here, after honey harvests, Grandpa Archie would regale me with stories as we devoured his hearty sandwiches and freshly baked pie—a blissful prelude to our afternoon naps.

A wave of bittersweet nostalgia washed over me. I remembered running around as a little girl, pigtails bouncing, begging him to carry me close so I could play with the wind chimes tinkling from the porch ceiling.

Each forgotten treasure — a chipped teacup, faded photographs — was a silent testament to those cherished moments. Even the dusty antlers adorning the walls, once trophies of his hunting days, now seemed nostalgic.

Tears pricked at my eyes as a lump formed in my throat. This wasn’t just any cabin; it was a repository of shared memories, a tangible link to Grandpa. Memories that danced in my head the moment I stepped onto the creaky porch.

“Sounds like a happy camper,” I could almost hear Grandpa’s voice rumble, a twinkle in his eye. He used to love teasing me about city folk not being used to the symphony of nature – crickets chirping, wind whistling through the pines, gurgling streams.

I knelt beside the gnarled dwarf tree that stood sentinel by the porch, its branches reaching out like knotty fingers. A wave of nostalgia washed over me as I ran my hand over the rough bark.

“Careful there, sweetie,” Grandpa’s voice echoed in my mind. “Don’t want to wake the grumpy gnomes living inside!” We’d spent countless afternoons perched on these very branches, him regaling me with fantastical stories whispered by the wind.

The dry maple leaves crunched under my fingers as I started clearing a space beneath the tree. Each rustle seemed to whisper another memory, another shared moment with the man who meant the world to me. I missed Grandpa so much.

There, nestled in the dirt, lay a familiar glint of metal. It was the rusty key Grandpa Archie used to hide, granting us access to the cabin’s dusty interior. My fingers trembled as I retrieved it, a surge of emotions swirling within me.

The rusty hinges groaned in protest as I pushed the door open, revealing a scene frozen in time. Dust motes danced in the shafts of sunlight filtering through the grimy windows. Cobwebs draped the corners. My eyes scanned the room, taking in the faded floral wallpaper and the worn armchair nestled beside a cold fireplace.

A shiver ran down my spine. Without Grandpa’s booming voice and his warm presence, the cabin felt eerily empty. Slowly, I stepped inside, each creak of the floorboards echoing my anxiety.

My gaze fell upon a small table in the center of the room. Resting upon it, nestled amidst a chaotic jumble of dusty trinkets, was a metal box unlike anything I’d seen before. Intricate carvings adorned its surface, catching the remaining sunlight and casting an otherworldly glow.

Taped to its side was a note, the faded ink barely discernible. My heart stuttered in my chest as I read the words scrawled across the yellowed paper:

A lump formed in my throat. I traced the carvings on the box, my fingers itching to pry it open. What secrets did it hold? Was it filled with cryptic messages, guiding me further on this unexpected adventure? Or maybe it contained a special memento, a final hug from Grandpa even though he was gone? Was it the gold bracelet I wanted? Or the expensive smartwatch like the one my rival in class, Emma, had?

The temptation was almost unbearable. But Grandpa’s words echoed in my mind: “To be opened at the end of the journey.”

Despite my bubbling curiosity, I knew I could never disobey his wishes. With a deep breath, I tucked the box safely inside my backpack, resolving to continue the journey Grandpa had laid out for me.

***

The forest floor crunched under my feet with each step as I ventured deeper, the map clutched tightly in my hand. The next landmark, however, presented a challenge: the map depicted a cascading waterfall, its roar supposedly audible from afar.

But after what felt like hours of navigating through dense undergrowth and clambering over moss-covered rocks, doubt began to gnaw at me. Had I misinterpreted the map? Was I hopelessly lost?

Sunlight, dappled and weak, barely pierced the thick canopy overhead. My breath came in ragged gasps, echoing in the eerie stillness. Gone were the comforting sounds of birdsong and rustling leaves, replaced by an unnerving quiet.

I traced a finger along a fresh scrape on my forearm. It hurt. Pirate bugs, those tiny terrors with their devilish stings, were winning the war on my ankles and arms.

“Stupid map,” I muttered under my breath, unfolding the flimsy paper again. It crinkled in my trembling hand, mocking my bravado. Was this the right turn? Or had I been following deer trails all along? Panic clawed at my throat, its icy grip tightening with every passing second.

This wouldn’t have happened if I’d stayed put at Aunt Daphne’s cozy cottage. Hot chocolate by the fire, fluffy slippers… a far cry from this scratchy undergrowth and the gnawing fear in my stomach. Greed had driven me here. Grandpa’s old stories about “hidden treasure” — a ridiculous childhood fantasy I’d clung onto like a lifeline.

Sweat plastered my hair to my forehead, stinging my eyes. The memory of Grandpa, his booming laugh and warm, calloused hand, flashed through my mind.

A pang of guilt stabbed me. He’d taught me to respect the forest, to navigate its secrets with patience and a keen eye. Where was that patience now? Where was the keen eye buried beneath this mountain of self-pity?

Suddenly, a twig snapped in the distance. My heart hammered against my ribs. Were there wolves here? Imaginary childhood terrors, fueled by too many bedtime stories, came flooding back. Maybe Aunt Daphne was right after all. This place could swallow you whole and no one would ever know.

Tears pricked the back of my eyes, blurring the already indistinct path. Shame burned hotter than the bug bites. This wasn’t about treasure anymore. It was about pride, a foolish attempt to prove I could be strong and resourceful, just like Grandpa used to be. But all I felt now was fear and a crushing loneliness.

Taking a deep, shaky breath, I forced myself to think. Backtracking looked tempting, but with the sun low in the sky, the woods would be even more treacherous at night. The bridge, that wooden bridge Grandpa always talked about… maybe that was the key. If I could find that, then maybe I could find my way out of this mess.

Wiping away a tear, I straightened my backpack, the worn leather a familiar comfort. “Okay, Robyn,” I whispered to myself, my voice sounding alien in the oppressive silence. “Let’s find that bridge.”

There was still time to turn this foolish adventure into a full-blown treasure hunt. A chance to crack Grandpa’s code and claim the prize waiting at the end. Maybe it was gold, maybe it was jewels – whatever it was, I would find it. It would be mine.

***

The heat pressed down like a heavy hand, sucking the moisture from my body. My throat started feeling like sandpaper. Exhausted, I slumped beneath the meager shade of a scraggly tree, the dappled sunlight offering little respite. My gaze fell on my scraped knees and elbows, the angry red welts a testament to my ill-advised trek.

A pang of longing, sharp and unexpected, hit me. I pictured Aunt Daphne’s pristine kitchen, the aroma of freshly baked cookies filling the air. Memories of her bustling about, a comforting smile etched on her face, flooded my mind. Back then, I’d taken her kindness for granted. Her insistence on me packing my own backpack or doing my dishes felt like an overreaction at the time.

“You’re a big lady now, Robyn,” she would often say. “It’s high time you learned to take care of yourself.”

I winced. Those words echoed in the stillness, a constant reminder of my childish dependence. With trembling hands, I unzipped my backpack, a sliver of hope clinging to the possibility of finding some forgotten stash of granola bars or candy.

But the only evidence of my past snacking habits were crumpled candy wrappers and two stale, broken crackers scattered across the bottom compartment.

A strangled cry escaped my lips. Why did it have to be today, of all days, that Aunt Daphne decided to take a stand?

Desperation clawed at me as I sifted through the meager contents, hopelessly searching for anything remotely edible. But there was nothing.

Tears welled up in my eyes, blurring my vision. I choked them back, forcing myself to take a deep, shaky breath. There was no point in wallowing in self-pity. I had to find a way out of this mess.

I looked around for edible berries, but there were none. I scraped together the remaining cracker crumbs, the meager offering doing little to appease my growling stomach. My throat felt parched, my tongue thick and cottony.

“Focus, Robyn,” I muttered to myself. “Find the bridge. Find water.”

Ignoring the gnawing ache in my tummy, I pushed deeper into the woods, the map clutched desperately in my sweaty hand. Grandpa’s voice, a faint echo from a lifetime ago, whispered in my ear: “There’s a little patch of heal-all by the old oak, Robyn. Good for stings and scrapes.”

My eyes scanned the undergrowth, searching for the familiar heart-shaped leaves. And there they were, a small cluster nestled amongst the ferns. Relief washed over me, momentarily pushing back the fear gnawing at the edges of my mind.

Gingerly, I plucked a few leaves, crushing them between two smooth stones. The pungent aroma filled the air as I smeared the green paste onto my stinging arms and legs. It wouldn’t last long, but the cooling sensation offered a sliver of comfort.

I ventured further. The sound of rushing water, faint at first, grew steadily louder. My heart hammered in my chest. Water meant survival. Following the melody of the stream, I pushed through the dense foliage.

Then I saw it: a ribbon of silver snaking through the trees. The river. But where is the bridge? Panic surged through me, icy tendrils slithering down my spine.

The map, crumpled and damp, offered no solace. This wasn’t the gentle stream Grandpa used to take me to. This was a churning mass of fast-moving water, its surface a blur in the fading light.

Ignoring the treacherous path, I scrambled down the rocky bank, driven by a desperate thirst. Reaching the water’s edge, I knelt, cupping my hands to scoop up the cool liquid. It tasted faintly metallic, but it was life-giving nectar in that moment.

As I rose, the precarious footing betrayed me. The slippery rock beneath my foot gave way, sending me tumbling into the frigid current. A scream tore from my throat, choked off by the icy water that engulfed me. My backpack, heavy and cumbersome, dragged me down. Terror propelled me upwards, but the current was relentless, pulling me downstream.

“Help!” I shrieked, a choked gasp that bubbled uselessly through the water that filled my mouth.

Panicked gasps filled my lungs as I desperately clawed for anything to hold onto. My fingers brushed against a rough branch. With a surge of adrenaline, I clung on.

Tears streamed down my face. “Grandpa,” I whispered, the name a desperate plea into the unforgiving wilderness. Thinking of him, a sliver of clarity cut through the panic. He wouldn’t have wanted me to give up. He’d taught me to fight, to be brave.

With a shaky breath, I made a decision. The backpack, filled with useless supplies, was dead weight. Unbuckling the straps, I let it go after taking only Grandpa’s metal box, the current whisking it away in a flash of red.

Feeling lighter and more maneuverable, I kicked my legs, fighting against the treacherous current. The shore seemed miles away. But I wouldn’t give up. Not yet. Using every ounce of strength, I propelled myself through the water, gasping for air with every stroke.

My fingers brushed a solid log, a lifeline in the churning chaos. I clung to it with every ounce of strength, the current tossing me like a ragdoll. Then, with a final shove, it deposited me, sputtering and bruised, onto the muddy bank.

Exhaustion slammed into me like a tidal wave. My limbs felt like lead pipes, and each ragged breath scraped against my raw throat. I collapsed beneath the sprawling branches of a giant oak, its leaves offering a meager shield against the gathering darkness. Tears welled up in my eyes, hot and stinging, blurring the already indistinct shapes of the forest around me.

Alone. Lost. A single sob escaped my lips, echoing into the vast unknown. Images of Aunt Daphne’s disappointed face flashed in my mind. Would she even bother to look for me? Or would I be stuck here forever, a forgotten footnote in my own stupid adventure story?

A wave of self-pity threatened to engulf me, but then a flicker of memory, faint and distant, sparked within me. Grandpa Archie’s voice, rough and weathered, filled my head: “Don’t you ever sit there feelin’ sorry for yourself, pumpkin. There ain’t nothin’ in this world that can’t be overcome with a little grit and determination. Get up. Get going. You can do this.”

Shame burned in my throat, hotter than the tears that streamed down my face. How could I have forgotten his words? All this time, I’d been chasing some childish fantasy of buried treasure, neglecting the real lessons he’d tried to teach me.

With a shaky hand, I reached for my damp jeans, stripping it off and draped them over a low-hanging branch. The wet fabric felt clammy against my skin. My jacket followed suit, its red color an ominous contrast against the darkening forest floor.

My gaze then fell on the metal box, glinting faintly in the fading light. A sliver of hope flickered within me. Maybe it held a map, a clue, anything that could lead me home.

Grandpa’s words, “To be opened at the end of the journey,” haunted me. But I was battered to wait anymore. I gave up. This was the end of my journey. So I decided to go ahead and open the box.

My fingers trembled as I pried it open, the rusty hinges groaning in protest. But instead of parchment or jewels, my eyes landed on a familiar sight: a glass jar filled with golden honey.

“You kidding me, Grandpa? What were you even thinking?” I cried.

And then, tucked beside it, nestled in a worn leather frame, was a photo. A single tear rolled down my cheek, but this time, it wasn’t from frustration. It was curiosity. A younger me, barely six, grinned toothlessly alongside Grandpa Archie, both of us covered in sticky honey from head to toe.

A sob choked in my throat. Shame twisted in my gut. All this time, I’d taken his lessons for granted. His quiet wisdom, his unwavering belief in me — I’d tossed it all aside in a selfish pursuit of thrills.

Sniffling back the tears, I wiped my snotty nose on the back of my hand. It was time to stop wallowing and start acting. I wouldn’t let him down. Not anymore.

I gathered fallen branches and dry leaves, constructing a makeshift leaf fort beneath the dense canopy of the oak. It wasn’t perfect, but it would shelter me for the night.

As darkness finally descended, the forest around me came alive with a symphony of nocturnal sounds. Crickets chirped a relentless chorus, punctuated by the distant howl of wild dogs and the eerie hoot of an owl. Curled up amongst the leaves, my stomach growled as I drifted off to sleep.

***

Grandpa Archie stood beside me, his weathered face etched with a familiar warmth. He gently brushed a stray strand of hair from my forehead. “Don’t you worry, little pumpkin,” he whispered. “Hard work is the key to everything. It’s easy to give up, but the sweetest rewards come after the toughest fights.”

“I love you, Grandpa,” I whispered, my eyes gushing with tears. “I’m sorry for letting you down. I’ll try harder. I promise.”

The sharp sting of a cold breeze slapped my cheek. Jolting awake, I looked around, disoriented for a moment. The forest floor was inky black, moonlight filtering through the sparse canopy of leaves.

“Grandpa?” I called out. “Grandpa, you there?”

Silence answered me, broken only by the relentless chirping of the crickets. A pang of loneliness gripped me, but this time, it was different. It wasn’t the fear of being alone, but the ache of missing him. Memories flooded back: nights spent on the porch swing, Grandpa pointing out constellations, his voice a comforting rumble.

A single tear escaped as I gazed at the star-dusted canvas above. One star, brighter than the others, seemed to wink at me. In a choked whisper, I sighed: “Grandpa!”

Taking a deep breath, I reached for the jar of honey. Grandpa always said a spoonful could chase away any grumpiness. Unscrewing the lid, the familiar scent filled my senses once more. Dipping a trembling finger into the golden liquid, I brought it to my lips.

The sweetness spread on my tongue, a burst of familiar warmth. It wasn’t just the taste, but the memory it unlocked: a younger me, laughing alongside Grandpa as we clumsily extracted honey from the hives, our faces sticky with the sweet reward of our labor.

A single tear rolled down my cheek, but this time, it wasn’t laced with self-pity. It was a tear of resolve. Grandpa wouldn’t have wanted me to give up. He’d have told me to dust myself off, use my head, and find my way back.

Clutching the empty honey jar, a small comfort in the vast darkness, I curled beneath the watchful gaze of a million stars, praying for dawn’s light.

***

The stinging rays of the morning sun woke me, rousing me from a restless slumber. I hoisted myself to my feet, my muscles groaning in protest. My damp clothes clung to me as I hugged the metal box close to my chest, setting off down the path, each step a silent promise to Grandpa. I wouldn’t let him down. Not anymore.

The forest floor, uneven and littered with roots and fallen leaves that snagged at my shoes, offered no respite. The silence was broken only by the occasional chirp of birds or the rustle of leaves in the unseen breeze.

As I walked, a shiver wracked my body. The dampness from my clothes had seeped into my bones, leaving me chilled to the core.

Suddenly, a memory surfaced, vivid as a painting. A warm summer afternoon shimmered on the lake’s surface, the water reflecting the endless blue sky. Grandpa sat beside me, his weathered face creased in a familiar smile as he patiently showed me how to cast a line.

“Easy now, sweetie,” he’d say, his voice warm. “Slow and steady wins the race, remember?”

I fumbled with the fishing rod, the line tangling more than casting. Grandpa chuckled, his laugh lines deepening.

“There you go,” he said, untangling the mess with practiced ease. “Just like that. Now a gentle flick of the wrist, and off she goes!”

The bobber sailed gracefully across the water, landing with a soft plop. We sat in comfortable companionable silence, punctuated only by the gentle lap of the water and the chirping of birds in the trees. Then, Grandpa would hum a soft tune, a simple melody that seemed to weave through the leaves and dance on the breeze.

“Come on, Robyn,” I muttered to myself, my voice barely audible over the rushing water. “You can do this. One step at a time.”

A shiver ran down my spine, not just from the cold, but from a sudden, comforting feeling. It was almost like… Grandpa’s hand on my shoulder, a silent reassurance that he was here, somehow, urging me on.

The path stretched before me, a twisting ribbon of dirt and leaves disappearing into the dense foliage. The humming continued, a lifeline connecting me to Grandpa, his spirit a comforting presence guiding me through the tangled undergrowth.

As the intense rays of dawn peeked through the canopy, casting long shadows across the forest floor, I stumbled upon a sight that brought a gasp to my lips. There, in the distance, arched over the churning river, was a bridge. The very same bridge I’d seen on the map.

I wasn’t sure what awaited me on the other side of the bridge, but for the first time in what felt like forever, a sliver of hope flickered within me. I may have gotten myself into this mess, but I was determined to find my way out. And this time, I wouldn’t be alone. Grandpa’s spirit, his lessons etched in my heart, would be with me every step of the way.

The sun beat down mercilessly, turning the forest floor into a sweltering oven. A stabbing pain shot up my spine, and my legs ached with every stumbling step.

With every passing hour, the comforting shade turned into a confusing maze. The landmarks I remembered from childhood — the giant oak with the tire swing, the babbling brook teeming with tadpoles — were nowhere to be seen.

Panic gnawed at the edges of my sanity. Was I hopelessly lost again? Would I wander these woods forever, a cautionary tale for disobedient children?

Just when I was about to give in to despair, the trees thinned, revealing a small clearing bathed in the golden light of the sun. Collapsing onto the soft grass, I let out a ragged sob of relief. The world blurred around me. My throat rasped like sandpaper, begging for a single drop of moisture.

Then, a wet nudge on my hand told me I was… alive. My blurry vision focused on a black nose, insistent and slimy. Before I could react, a large brown dog emerged, its tongue lolling in a happy grin. It licked my face, the rough rasp a strange comfort.

A chorus of muffled voices then erupted from the trees. “There she is! She’s over here! We found her!”

A wave of relief washed over me, so intense it threatened to pull me under. The last thing I registered was the distant wail of sirens. Then, darkness. Pitch black darkness engulfed me.

***

A white ceiling greeted me as I blinked my eyes open. A dull ache throbbed behind my temples. My body felt heavy and anchored to the hospital bed.

A choked sob escaped my lips, and a figure beside me stirred. A wave of warmth washed over me as Aunt Daphne’s hand clasped mine, her touch a grounding force in the disorienting haze.

“Robyn? You’re awake!” Her voice, usually crisp and composed, held a tremor of relief.

“Aunt Daphne… I’m so sorry,” I croaked out an apology, a torrent of regret threatening to drown me.

Her worried frown deepened, but she offered a reassuring smile. “Shh, honey. You’re safe now. That’s all that matters.”

Safe. The word echoed in my head, a haunting contrast to the fear and loneliness that had gripped me in the forest. Tears welled up in my eyes, spilling over onto the starched white sheets.

Aunt Daphne squeezed my hand, her eyes glistening with unshed tears. “He never stopped loving you, sweetie. Even when you were angry, even when you didn’t understand. Even when you fought with him for not getting you that smartwatch just two weeks before his death.”

Shame burned in my throat, hotter than any tears. “I don’t deserve his love,” I whispered, the words thick with regret. “I never appreciated him, or anything he did for me. He was always there for me. Grandpa was both my Mom and Dad after their passing. But I—”

A faint smile touched Aunt Daphne’s lips. “He knew you’d come around, sweetie. He always believed in you, even when you didn’t believe in yourself.”

She reached into a bag beside her chair, pulling out a brightly colored box. My breath hitched as I recognized the familiar blue wrapping paper: the same kind Grandpa always used for gifts.

“This is for you,” Aunt Daphne said gently, placing the box on my lap.

My hands trembled as I unwrapped the package, a lump forming in my throat. Nestled inside, a brand-new Xbox gleamed under the harsh light.

“Grandpa wanted you to have this,” Aunt Daphne continued. “He said when you learned the value of hard work, when you understood the importance of patience and perseverance, then it would be yours.”

The weight of Grandpa’s love, his unwavering faith in me, crashed down on me. Tears streamed down my face, each one a silent apology, a promise to do better.

Taking a deep breath, I wiped my face with the back of my hand. A new resolve settled within me, steady and unwavering. “I’ll be good, Aunt Daphne,” I promised, my voice hoarse but firm. “I’ll work hard. I won’t let Grandpa down anymore.”

Aunt Daphne’s smile, this time brighter and filled with genuine joy, was all the reassurance I needed. Reaching to the bedside, I pulled out the small honey jar.

“Would you like some honey, Aunt Daphne?” I asked, offering the sticky jar.

A flicker of surprise crossed her face, then a knowing smile touched her lips. Taking the jar, she dipped a finger in and tasted the honey.

“It’s sweet,” she said, her voice soft. “Just like you, Robyn. Just like you!”

Years flew by. Now, at 28, a million miles from that grumbling teenager to a bee-boss with two little terrors of my own (who thankfully love honey!), I learned a thing or two about responsibility.

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While an ordinary apiary taught Robyn the true value of life, in another corner, an ignorant Hugo thought his late Grandma left him only an urn of ashes after her death. He condemned her, only to realize how wrong he had been when the urn shattered. Here’s the full story.

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