Everyone laughed when they saw her sign.

“Play UNO with your grandma 😊”
It was classic Lois. Sweet, harmless, full of mischief behind those glasses. She had this way of making everything feel like a game—especially the games.

But what most folks didn’t know?

She never lost.

I mean, ever. The nurses kept score on a whiteboard in the rec room. Lois: 47. Everyone else: zero. And if someone got too close to winning, she’d pull a Reverse card with a grin so smug you’d think she ran Vegas.

So when I visited last Thursday and she challenged me to a match, I was ready. I’d been practicing. Had my strategy down.

We played for two hours. Laughed. Talked trash. She slapped down +4s like she’d been waiting all week to ruin my day.

And just when I thought I had her—just when she had one card left and I hit her with a Draw Two—she paused. Looked me dead in the eye.

Then she said, “If I win this next hand… you have to go to the cedar box in my closet.”

I froze. “Why?”

She winked. “Because you’ll finally be old enough.”

She laid her last card.

And I swear on everything, it was the quietest the room had ever been.

The cedar box sat on the top shelf of her closet, dusty but unmistakably important. It wasn’t fancy—just an old wooden thing with brass hinges—but there was something about the way Lois talked about it that made me nervous. Like it wasn’t just some random trinket or collection of photos.

After our game, she didn’t say much more. Just gave me one of her knowing smiles and patted my shoulder. “Go ahead,” she said softly. “You’ll understand soon.”

I climbed onto a chair and pulled it down carefully, half-expecting it to weigh a ton or make some kind of magical noise. But it was light, almost delicate. When I opened it, inside were three things: a folded letter, a small velvet pouch, and an antique key.

“What’s all this?” I asked, turning back to her.

Lois leaned against the doorway, arms crossed. “That’s for you to figure out.”

The letter came first. Her handwriting was shaky but still neat, the kind of cursive they don’t teach anymore.

Dear [Your Name],

By now, you’ve probably realized I’m not just playing Uno for fun. Every game has stakes, doesn’t it? Even life itself feels like a series of hands dealt from a deck we can’t see.

I want you to take these items and follow where they lead. They’re pieces of a puzzle—not mine, but yours. You’ve always been searching for something, even if you didn’t know it yet. Maybe this will help you find it.

P.S. Don’t lose the key. It opens more than locks.

I stared at the paper, then looked up at Lois. “What does this mean?”

She shrugged. “You tell me.”

The velvet pouch contained a locket. Inside the locket was a picture of two people—a young man and woman standing beside a lake. Neither of them looked familiar, but the scene felt oddly comforting, like I’d seen it before in a dream. On the back of the locket, engraved in tiny letters, were the words: “For keeps.”

“This is weird,” I muttered, holding it up to the light.

“Not weird,” Lois corrected gently. “Important.”

“And the key?”

“That’s the tricky part.” She smiled again, that same mischievous glint in her eyes. “It belongs somewhere far away. Somewhere you need to go.”

The next morning, I woke up determined to solve whatever mystery Lois had set in motion. First stop: figuring out who the people in the locket were. I took it to my mom, hoping she might recognize them.

“Oh my gosh,” she whispered when she saw it. Her hands trembled as she traced the engraving. “Where did you get this?”

“Lois gave it to me,” I said cautiously. “Do you know who they are?”

Mom nodded slowly. “That’s your great-grandparents. They lived by Lake Crescent before they passed away. We used to visit every summer when I was little, but after Dad died…” She trailed off, shaking her head. “Anyway, I haven’t been back there in years.”

Lake Crescent. That name sent a shiver down my spine. Suddenly, the key made sense—it must open something at the lake. A cabin, maybe? Or a chest hidden somewhere along the shore?

Two days later, armed with the key, the locket, and a backpack full of snacks, I drove to Lake Crescent. It was beautiful in a haunting sort of way, mist rolling across the water like ghosts whispering secrets. I parked near the ranger station and started asking questions.

Turns out, there was a cabin once owned by my family. Abandoned decades ago, but still standing—or so the ranger thought. He gave me directions and warned me about wildlife, though his tone suggested he didn’t expect me to actually find anything.

An hour of hiking later, I did.

The cabin was small and weathered, its roof sagging under the weight of time. Ivy crept up the walls, and the windows were clouded with grime. But the door had a lock, and the key fit perfectly.

Inside, it smelled like pine and dust. Sunlight filtered through cracks in the boards, illuminating shelves lined with jars of preserves long gone bad. In the corner stood a trunk, its metal clasps rusted but intact. My heart raced as I knelt down and turned the key.

Inside the trunk was another letter—and a photo album.

The letter was addressed to me, written in Lois’s hand.

Congratulations, it began. You’ve taken the first step toward finding yourself. This place holds memories you didn’t know you needed. Take them, cherish them, and remember: sometimes the greatest treasures aren’t gold or jewels—they’re stories.

The photo album was filled with pictures of my family—generations of them, spanning decades. Birthdays, holidays, lazy afternoons by the lake. There were notes tucked into the pages, little anecdotes scrawled in different hands. One caught my eye:

“Never forget where you come from. Roots run deep.”

As I flipped through the pages, tears welled up in my eyes. For years, I’d felt disconnected, like I didn’t belong anywhere. But here, surrounded by my history, I felt… whole. Like I’d found a missing piece of myself.

When I returned home, I showed Lois everything. She listened intently, nodding occasionally but mostly letting me talk. When I finished, she smiled.

“You see now, don’t you?” she said. “Life isn’t just about winning or losing. It’s about the journey—the people, the places, the moments that shape us.”

“I get it,” I replied. “You weren’t just playing Uno with me. You were teaching me how to play the game of life.”

She laughed. “Exactly. Now go live it.”

Looking back, I realize Lois wasn’t just my grandma. She was my guide, my teacher, my biggest fan. She knew exactly what she was doing when she handed me that cedar box. She knew I needed to reconnect—with my roots, with my family, with myself.

So here’s the lesson I learned: Sometimes, the answers we seek aren’t out there in the world. They’re closer than we think, tucked away in forgotten corners of our lives. All we have to do is look.

If you enjoyed this story, please share it with someone who needs a reminder to cherish their own roots. And don’t forget to hit that like button—it means the world to us storytellers! 🌱