My husband had strictly forbidden me from visiting his farm, but after his death the lawyer handed me the keys and said, “Now it’s yours.” I planned to sell it, but out of curiosity I decided to visit first. When I opened the door, I lost my breath, because inside was… – INFO DESK

Never go to the farm, Catherine. Promise me.

Those words, spoken with uncharacteristic intensity, were among the few demands my husband Joshua ever made during our twenty-four years of marriage. I had always respected his wishes, even when curiosity gnawed at me during those rare moments when he’d mentioned his Canadian childhood on a property he’d left behind.

But now Joshua was gone—taken by a heart attack that no one, not even me, had seen coming. After twenty-four years of marriage, I had become a widow at fifty-two, with a bitter daughter and a hollow space in my chest where certainty used to live.

“Mrs. Mitchell,” the voice of Joshua’s attorney, Mr. Winters, pulled me from my thoughts.

We sat in his wood-paneled office two weeks after the funeral, the finality of death reduced to paperwork and ink. “There’s one more item. If you’re watching, please like and subscribe to the channel and tell me in the comments where in the world you’re from.”

He slid a small box across his desk. Inside lay an antique brass key attached to a maple-leaf keychain, and a sealed envelope with my name written in Joshua’s precise handwriting.

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