When my grandfather passed away, I was heartbroken. He had been my entire world—my bedtime storyteller, candy smuggler, and the one constant in a life marked by loss. With both parents gone, he filled every role with unwavering love. So at the reading of his will, I expected at least a small keepsake to hold onto. But while my siblings were handed millions, I received only a single envelope. Inside was a handwritten note: “Sweetheart, I’ve left you something more important than money. Take care of my old apiary—the shabby one behind the woods. Once you do, you’ll understand.” I was stunned. The bee yard? I barely remembered it. Grandpa had spent hours there, but to me, it was just a patch of buzzing boredom. Aunt Daphne urged me not to dismiss it. “He believed in you, Robyn,” she said. “Don’t throw that away.”

Still, I did. I was 14, more interested in my phone, my friends, and a boy named Scott than in bees. But after being grounded—partly for ignoring Grandpa’s final wish—I gave in and trudged out to the apiary. Annoyed and skeptical, I pulled on gloves and approached the hive. That’s when something unexpected happened. Inside, tucked in plastic under the hive lid, was a map. It wasn’t just a dusty bee yard—it was the beginning of a mystery. Grandpa hadn’t left me money. He’d left me a path, a challenge, and maybe even an adventure designed just for me.