I got ready for work and drank my morning coffee. Suddenly, there's a knock on the door. I look through the peep hole, but no one is there. I open the door, and there is nobody in sight, just a small cardboard box on the door mat. The package has a note taped to it "To - Little Roger, From Grampa Pat."

I pick up the box and carry it to the kitchen island. Grampa Pat had been dead for two years. I started to tear up, remembing when I heard that Grampa, the one who taught me how to be a man after dad walked out, died in a tragic car accident. I take a knife from the drawer and open the box, only to find a fountain pen and a note written with a black ink pen:

"Dear Little Roger,

By the time you get this, I will be gone. You were the son I never had. I'm so sorry you had to go through all of this. I leave you my most prized possessions, my father's fountain pen.

Don't let anyone know you have this pen, and don't tell anyone you received this package. I love you, Little Man, but I don't have long to write this,

Your Grampa, Patrick"

A small doodle of a box, in front of a door, is drawn at the bottom of the page, drawn with a blue pen, with a note underneath: "As soon as it's safe."

I took the pen and a roll of paper towels. I walk over to the living room and collapse on the sofa. I dry my eyes and blow my nose. It didn't make sense. Why now? What's with this note?

I doodle a little bird on the paper towel, the first thing Grampa taught me how to draw. Just then, a song bird flies in from the kitchen and perches on the arm rest of the sofa.

"Whoa, little guy, where did you come from? Let's get you back outside."

I open the front door, and the little white bird flies over. Instead of flying out the door, it lands on my shoulder, "You're a friendly little guy, but you can't stay here." I put my index finger near its feet. It steps on, and I slowly move him out the door. "Fly away, little guy." The bird let's out a little whistle before flying off.

I go back into my living room, but curiosity rushes over me. I grap my notepad off the bookshelf. I know it's impossible, but I drew a little sketch of a $100 bill. A moment later, I look over to my couch, and a crisp $100 bill is lying there.

"No way..."

On the other side of town, two men in black suits talk with one another in a dark room.

"Jeffries, it's been two years, the Pen of Creation is lost. We have to give up at some point."

"There is no way Patrick Clyde would destroy that pen. He must have hid it somewhere."

"We've checked his home, his work, his family. We even dug up his grave, TWICE!"

"Please, just give me two more weeks. If I still can't find it, I'll give up."

"Where are you even going to look?"

"I don't know, I can check his daughter again, maybe that grandson?"

The larger of the two men, let out a heavy sigh, "Alright, alright, but this wild goose chase has put both of our careers on the line. If you still can't find anything, I'm closing the case."

"Thanks, Aaron. I have a good feeling this time."

"I don't."

[removed]

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