When I was six, I used to walk my grandmother to her room, holding her hand as she studied me like she wanted to memorize every freckle. She always said, “Zaina, there’s gold behind your eyes.” By ten, she started forgetting small things. At eleven, she asked if I was her sister. Alzheimer’s. From then on, I read to her every night, holding her hand until the day she passed.

A month later, while clearing her room, my dad found a tiny floral notebook with my name inside. Page one: “For Zaina, when she’s ready.” Inside were letters written throughout my childhood—sweet memories, advice, and warnings about heartbreak. One line stood out: “There’s something in the old mirror upstairs.”

Behind that mirror, taped to the back, was an envelope with my name. Inside: a key and a note—“It’s in the garden, beneath the rosebush that never dies.” I dug until I unearthed a rusted tin box. Inside was a photo of my grandfather, a velvet pouch with a gold coin pendant, and a letter: “This locket survived war, loss, and love. Don’t let it get buried with weeds.”

I wore the pendant to my graduation, my first job interview, and later, to the library where I worked. I began sharing her words during community storytelling nights. Once, an older woman said it inspired her to reconcile with her estranged sister. That’s when I realized: Nani hadn’t hidden treasure. She had planted meaning.

Months later, her cousin Ruya found me—with the twin locket and the other half of Nani’s letters. Her final lesson echoed through them all: life is about choosing love, even when it hurts. And now, whenever I teach kids who’ve lost grandparents, I tell them—sometimes, the most priceless inheritance isn’t money. It’s the wisdom they leave tucked behind mirrors, under rosebushes, or inside of you.