Chapter 2: Gold in the Walls

The fluorescent lights buzzed overhead, casting everything in a sickly glow. My phone was blowing up with messages I didn’t want to answer. I just sat there. Grandpa’s words from the night before kept replaying in my head.

Last night, Grandpa had come to me in a dream again.

He said there was gold in the wall of the old house.

No way. It couldn’t be.

Back then, Grandpa was, at best, a blue-collar farmer. During rough years, he barely managed to feed his three boys.

He wore overalls patched at the knees, hands stained with engine grease and soil. If there really was gold, wouldn’t it have disappeared long ago? That thought nagged at me.

I laughed at myself. But when I caught my reflection in the glass across from me, I froze.

I froze.

My eyes looked haunted, desperate—just like my family looked that first time I told them Grandpa visited me in a dream.

They didn’t believe me either. And they ended up poisoned, hospitalized.

My two cousins on my uncle’s side ate the most ribs; only one survived after being resuscitated. Ever since, he’s been slow, withdrawn.

He used to be the loud one, always chasing us around the yard. Not anymore. Now, he hardly speaks, shuffles through life like he’s stuck in a fog. The other cousin… well, we don’t talk about him much.

We don’t talk about him much.

At the time, we thought it was deliberate poisoning. But after an investigation, it turned out my aunt had accidentally used toxic mushrooms. That made my uncle so furious, he hit her hard enough to burst her eardrum.

The police came, poked around the kitchen, and left with a baggie of suspicious mushrooms. My aunt cried for weeks—half-deaf, jumpy at every sound. My uncle’s temper was legendary; he never forgave easily.

If Grandpa hadn’t given me that first dream, I probably wouldn’t be here.

Sometimes, I still wonder if he’s watching out for me. Man, just thinking about this made my heart start pounding.

Maybe there really is gold in the wall of the old house! What if Grandpa’s right? What if this is my shot?

I tried to reason with myself, but I couldn’t shake the thought. What if it’s true? What if this is my shot?

Looks like I need to head home. No hesitation. Immediately! Right now!!

I packed my things and booked a carpool.

I didn’t even bother to check the weather or pack a change of clothes. I just threw everything into a duffel, called up a rideshare, and told the driver to take me as far as Silver Hollow. My hands were shaking the whole ride.

Lucky for me, three hours later, the driver dropped me off right at the edge of Silver Hollow. I stepped out, my heart thumping, and took a breath of cold country air.

The town sign was faded, leaning at a crooked angle. The air smelled like woodsmoke and cold earth. I glanced over at our family’s field. My aunt wasn’t around, and my cousin was digging in the dirt again, oblivious to everything.

He was always out there, rain or shine, scratching at the ground with a rusty trowel. I waved, but he didn’t look up.

At lunchtime, there wasn’t much smoke rising from the village chimneys. The whole place felt quiet, almost empty.

Most of the younger folks working out of town hadn’t come back for the holidays yet.

The older folks didn’t want to cook; they just made do with sandwich bread and coffee.

I could smell burnt toast and weak Folgers drifting from a dozen cracked windows. Nobody bothered with a big meal unless the grandkids were visiting. That’s just how it was.

As soon as I entered the village, I saw my uncle’s three-story house—the first real house anyone built in Silver Hollow. It still looked impressive.

The siding was faded, but the porch lights were still on, even in the middle of the day. It was the kind of house everyone pointed at when they drove by. Proof that someone in the family had made it, at least for a while.

I could vaguely hear my mom and her two sisters-in-law sunning themselves and gossiping in the yard.

Their voices carried, sharp and familiar, as they peeled apples. Then came the stories—who’d gotten fat, who’d run off with someone from the next county. I didn’t disturb them and quietly walked toward the old house. For a second, I wondered if they’d even notice I was back.

Grandma passed away early, and after Grandpa died, the place was left empty.

A few years back, after a nasty storm, they condemned the place.

Dad and my uncles talked about building a new place once the old one finally collapsed. But that was all talk.

But somehow, the old house was still standing.

The roof sagged, shingles missing, but the bones were stubborn. The front gate wasn’t locked, and inside, weeds had taken over. The old pine tree I remembered had died quietly. For a second, I just stood there, staring at it.