At seventy-four, I thought I was simply buying peace from leaks. I hadn’t bargained for what they’d find up there, or the decision their discovery would force on me.
My name’s Evelyn, I’m 74, and a widow of almost ten years. My husband Richard passed suddenly, a heart attack, right in the garden while trimming the hedges. One moment, he was grumbling about the weeds; the next, he was gone. No kids, no family left, just me and this old creaking house.
It’s funny, in a cruel sort of way, I’ve kept myself busy. My roses, my bread, the library volunteer shifts where the kids roll their eyes when I recommend Dickens — but nothing fills the silence. And in that silence, you hear things.
The house has a way of whispering its decay: the groan of old beams, the drip-drip-drip of water through a roof I’ve been too broke to fix.
Every storm, I’d lie awake clutching my quilt, staring at the ceiling. Would tonight be the night it caves in? Would I wake up buried under soggy shingles?
Finally, this spring, I scraped enough together for repairs and found a small roofing crew. They seemed… rough around the edges. Tattoos, cigarettes dangling, the kind of men Richard would’ve called “trouble in steel-toe boots.”
Still, I told myself, Evelyn, don’t judge. You need a roof, not a choir boy.
The morning they pulled into my driveway, my roses trembled from the bass thundering out of their truck. Four of them piled out, boots heavy on the gravel.
Joseph was the first to catch my eye — young, maybe mid-twenties, hair too long for a roofing job, but he looked at me with this soft kind of respect. “Good morning, ma’am,” he said, tipping his head. “We’ll get you taken care of.”
I smiled. “Thank you, dear. Call me Evelyn.”
Then came Josh, loud and swaggering like he owned the place. “Where’s the access? We’re burnin’ daylight here.” He barely glanced at me before barking at the others to unload.
Kevin, tall and lean with a cigarette stuck to his lip, muttered, “This roof’s a nightmare already,” before even setting foot on the ladder. And then there was Matt. Neutral, steady-eyed, but his silence wasn’t comforting. He seemed to drift after the others like smoke.
I decided to play hostess anyway. Old habits die hard. At noon, I brought out a tray of turkey and cheese sandwiches with a jug of lemonade.
Joseph’s face lit up like a boy at Christmas. “You didn’t have to do this, ma’am.”
“Nonsense,” I said. “Hard work deserves a meal.”
He took his plate gently, whispering a thank you.
Josh, on the other hand, rolled his eyes. “What is this, a daycare? We’re not kids, lady.”
Something inside me pinched. Richard would’ve said Don’t let them rattle you, Eve. But the way he sneered as he snatched a sandwich without a thank you — well, it left a taste in my mouth I couldn’t wash down with lemonade.
Kevin smirked, “Guess you’ve got yourself a house mom, Josh.”
“Yeah,” Josh snorted, taking a bite. “Maybe she’ll tuck us in, too.”
Matt just ate quietly, watching but not interfering.
Joseph shot me an apologetic glance. “Don’t mind them. They just… talk.”
I forced a smile. But as I stood there, tray still in my hands, I couldn’t shake the uneasy ripple working its way down my spine. These weren’t just men fixing a roof. Something in their laughter, sharp and hollow, told me they were already looking for more than shingles and nails.
And later, I’d learn — I was right.
By the third day, the hammering had become a rhythm I almost trusted. I was in the kitchen, elbow-deep in dough, when a shout sliced through the steady thud of nails.
“Holy Jeez!” Josh’s voice. Too sharp. Too excited.
I wiped my hands on my apron and shuffled outside, flour dusting the air around me like smoke. The men froze the second I stepped into view.
Kevin was the first to speak, too quick, too slick. “Nothing, ma’am. Just a bad beam. We’ll patch it.”
But I wasn’t born yesterday. I’d seen it — the edge of something they were too desperate to hide. An old wooden box was shoved hastily under a tarp. My breath caught. That box.
Richard’s box.
I knew it instantly. The grain of the wood, the brass corner fasteners. He’d shown it to me once, years ago, only days before his heart betrayed him. “Eve,” he had whispered, gripping my hand with a strength fading by the second, “if something happens, it’s yours. You’ll know when to open it.”
I never looked. Maybe I was afraid. Maybe I trusted that it wasn’t yet “when.”
Josh broke the silence, smirking at me like a child with stolen candy. “You don’t need to worry, lady. Just some junk your old man stuffed up here.”
“Junk?” My voice cracked sharper than I intended. “That box belongs to me.”
The air grew heavier. Kevin shifted, eyes narrowing. “Funny thing, though… feels heavy for junk.”
Matt finally spoke, low but clear. “Maybe we should just hand it over.”
Josh rounded on him. “Shut it, Matt. We found it. Finder’s keepers.”
Joseph’s voice cut in, soft but firm. “It’s hers, Josh. Don’t be a thief.”
Josh laughed, a cruel, barking sound. “What are you, a boy scout? This ain’t your grandma. She’s just some old lady with a leaky roof.”
The words burned hotter than the summer sun on my shoulders. I straightened, dusting the flour from my apron like armor. “Old lady or not,” I said, locking eyes with him, “that’s my husband’s box. And you’ll regret it if you keep it from me.”
For a moment, silence stretched. Then Kevin chuckled under his breath.
Richard always laughed when I scolded him for stashing things in odd places. “Banks,” he’d scoff, waving a hand like he could blow the whole world away, “are for people who like paperwork more than peace of mind.”
Decades of that stubbornness left us with jars of coins, a handful of gold, and a small wooden box he carved himself — brass corners, a little burn mark on the lid where he’d soldered something once.
He showed me where it lived in the rafters one rainy afternoon, his breath fogging the attic light. He was half-proud, half-afraid. “If I go,” he said, holding my hand so tight it hurt, “you’ll know where to look.” I promised. I never did.
