Starting on my eighth birthday, Grandpa Henry began giving me the same strange gift every year — a single green plastic soldier, wrapped in old newspaper, no card, no explanation. “Every army needs a leader,” he’d say with a twinkle in his eye, but never more than that. By the time I was twenty-six, I had eighteen soldiers lined up on my shelf. I thought it was just one of his quirks — until he passed away.

One afternoon, my sister picked one up, flipped it over, and froze. “You’ve never noticed this?” Each soldier had a tiny number and year etched into its base. When we arranged them in order, they formed GPS coordinates. The location led me to a quiet wooded area outside our hometown, where one of Grandpa’s old friends was waiting.