Every birthday from age 8 to 26, my Grandpa Henry gave me a single green plastic soldier. No card. No explanation. Just a soldier, wrapped in old newspaper.
I kept them out of politeness, lining them up on a shelf. Each had a number and a year—something I never noticed until after Grandpa passed away.
My sister Emma pointed it out first. “These are coordinates,” she said, flipping the bases over. One had “N,” another “E.” When we mapped the numbers, they led to a forest outside our hometown.
Curious, I followed the trail.
At the end of a winding path stood a cottage. Walter, an old friend of Grandpa’s, greeted me. “He built something for you,” he said, handing me a ring of keys.
Deeper in the woods, I found it—an ivy-covered hideaway.
Inside? Puzzles. Everywhere. Ciphers, locked drawers, riddles, crosswords. Solving them led to photos, recordings, even letters. Grandpa’s voice played from an old cassette: “Congrats, kiddo. You solved my favorite mystery.”
Each puzzle revealed more than clues—they revealed Grandpa. His memories, his wit, his heart.
The final drawer held a letter:
“This is all yours now. Let others play too. Share the joy.”
I quit my job, moved home, and—with Walter’s help—turned the cottage into “The Soldier’s Trail,” an escape room built on Grandpa’s designs.
On opening day, I placed the first green soldier at the front desk.
And each year since, I’ve added one more.
For the mystery.
For the magic.
For Grandpa.
