Returning early from vacation, I found a large hole in my backyard. About to call the cops, I spotted a shovel at the bottom. “What is this?” I muttered. That night, I kept watch and saw someone jump the fence and enter the hole.
I confronted the digger with my flashlight—it was George, the man who sold us the house. Shocked, he admitted, “My grandfather hid something valuable here. I thought I could dig it up while you were away.” He proposed a deal: help him dig, and we’d split whatever we found.
We searched for hours. George, struggling with job loss and his wife’s illness, hoped, “This treasure… could change everything for us.” As we dug, he shared stories of his grandfather, who distrusted banks and buried valuables. Though we only found rocks, we bonded.
By morning, George looked defeated. “I really thought…” Apologizing, he helped fill the hole. His wife, Margaret, worried, but we reassured her. She offered to pay for yard repairs, but I joked about building a pool instead.
Driving home, I told my wife, Karen, everything. She laughed, “Only you, Frank, would spend all night digging with a stranger.” We invited George and Margaret for dinner, knowing the real treasure was our newfound friendship.
