When I came home early from vacation, I found a massive hole in my backyard. At the bottom was a shovel, and later that night, the digger returned—it was George, the man who’d sold us the house.

He confessed his grandfather once owned the property and had supposedly buried treasure there. Against my better judgment, I agreed to help him dig. We found nothing but rocks, yet through hours of sweat and stories, we built an unlikely friendship.

In the end, George’s “treasure” wasn’t gold—it was connection, hope, and a reminder of what truly matters.