Every year on my birthday from age eight, my grandfather Henry gave me a single green plastic soldier, wrapped in old newspaper, never with a note or explanation. I collected eighteen over the years, each a different pose, but never questioned his quirky ritual. The last one came when he was in hospice, too weak to speak. Six months later, he passed away, leaving me with a complete “army” but no clue what it meant.

Weeks after the funeral, my sister Emma visited and pointed out something I had missed — each soldier had a number and year carved into the base, except the last two, which had the letters “N” and “E.” They were coordinates. When I entered them into my laptop, they led to a small wooded area outside our hometown. The next morning, I drove there and met Walter, Grandpa’s lifelong friend, who handed me keys and sent me down a mossy path.

At the end stood a tiny, ivy-covered cottage. Inside was a treasure trove of puzzles, riddles, and hidden compartments filled with photos, letters, recordings, and mementos from Grandpa’s life. It was like stepping inside his mind. The final puzzle revealed a letter explaining that he had built the cottage for me, knowing how much I loved solving mysteries with him. It was mine now, to keep or share with the world.

I left my job, moved home, and with Walter’s help, turned the cottage into “The Soldier’s Trail,” an escape room built entirely from Grandpa’s puzzles. On opening day, I placed one green soldier at the front desk — and each year since, I’ve added another, carrying forward the legacy and love hidden in those tiny plastic gifts.