Not meant to be home yet. After pulling into the driveway and seeing a big hole in my backyard, I called the I wasn’t meant to be home yet. My initial thought as I came into the driveway and saw a huge hole in my backyard was to contact the cops. I hesitated when I saw the ancient, dirt-caked shovel at the bottom. That moment of uncertainty led to a series of revelations that would reveal secrets, test friendships, and change my views on value, loyalty, and what matters.

I thought the worst of the day was over when Natalie and I had to cut our mountain excursion short. After getting the stomach sickness on our final night, all she wanted was tea and bed when we got home. However, I wanted to dump our luggage, kick off my boots, and slump on the sofa.

Something felt odd.

The area was quiet, as usual in early April. Our garden air seemed still, suspicious, not tranquil. I left after telling Natalie to lay down.

Then I saw it.

An ugly hole sat in the midst of our garden. I blinked, believing I was sleep-deprived and seeing things. But no. It was true. Jagged, six-foot-wide, and deep enough to obscure the bottom from where I stood.

“What the hell…?” Stepping closer, I whispered.

I saw a dirty shovel, half-full water bottle, and frayed fabric in the bottom. Someone worked hard down there.

My initial thought? Call police. My second? What if the perpetrator planned to return? Maybe they believed we were on vacation. They may have seen us leaving and believed they had more time.

“Natalie?” I phoned home.

She arrived at the sliding door pallid and exhausted. “Yeah?”

Pull the automobile into the garage. Act like we’re not home.”

She seemed confused but nodded. “Okay. Going to bed.”

I sat in the dark living room with a cup of coffee and watched the backyard as darkness fell. No idea what I anticipated. Logically, nothing would have happened.

However, after midnight, I spotted a shadow along the fence. A person jumped and landed softly. They headed toward the hole.

My heart drummed across my ribs. Grabbed my phone, lit the flashlight, and slipped outdoors.

Getting closer made groaning and metal scraping on ground louder. Whatever it was, they dug.

I illuminated the pit.

“Hey!” Barked.

The person trembled and glanced up. My jaw fell.

“Elliot?” Confused, I said.

Protecting his eyes from the sun. “Ben?”

Elliot sold us this home last summer. A wiry late-40s guy with a salt-and-pepper beard and deepening crow’s feet when he smiled. But now he didn’t smile.

“What are you doing in my backyard?” I demanded.

Ben, please listen. Let me explain.”

“You should.”

He uncomfortably emerged from the hole, wiping dirt off his clothes. “Don’t call the police.”

“That depends entirely on what you say next.”

Nervous, Elliot peered around. “My grandfather owned this house. He gave it to my mom, then me. He was considered odd. Disbelieved banks. I discovered his old diary with maps, doodles, and scribbles. He described concealing something important in the yard. I believed I could find it without you. My promise was not to harm anything.”

Staring at him, I was shocked. “So you broke into my property for treasure?”

A bashful nod. “Basically.”

“Why not ask?”

“I didn’t think you’d believe me.”

Honestly? He was right. I sensed despair in his eyes too. Weariness. Hope.

“What exactly are you seeking?” I asked, arms crossed.

Eliot stroked his neck. Could be anything. Grandpa spoke about gold coins and ‘emergency stashes.’ I need to know the difference between reality and fiction.

I hesitated.

Against all logic and common reason, I said, “That’s okay. If nothing turns up, we fill it in before sunrise.”

His eyes shone. “Deal.”

Just like that, we dug.

We scraped and hauled dirt into pit mounds side by side using one shovel from my shed. The sky was black, the air cold and wet with early spring dampness.

“So,” I said between shovelfuls, “what made you believe him?”

Elliot laughed. “You didn’t know my grandfather. He stashed cash-filled coffee cans in the garden. I felt it was crazy until I discovered the diary. A sheet with a depiction of this yard with a large red X where we’re digging.”

“Huh,” I wiped my brow. “Do you consider renting a metal detector?”

He chuckled. “I was trying to be discreet.”

“You’re digging a six-foot hole.”

“Fair point.”

We continued talking while the hole deepened. He informed me about his warehouse job loss after nearly a decade. Linda, his wife, had begun treatment.

He added, “This isn’t just about greed, Ben,” lowly. “This could change everything for us.”

I nodded. “I understand. Natalie and I are barely surviving. Roof needs repair. Our heating costs are crazy. Life’s costly.”

As night went on, we told more tales. Childhood recollections. Shelved dreams. Carried regrets. Between perspiration and grime, we ceased being homeowners and intruders. We were two exhausted guys clutching a longshot.

We froze when our shovels struck anything hard, but it was invariably a rock or old root.

Elliot leaned against the earthen wall at 4 a.m. “Maybe I was wrong.”

I forced a smile: “Or maybe it’s buried deeper.

“I don’t even care anymore,” he murmured. “I just wanted to believe something good might still be possible.”

That was heartbreakingly honest.

Give him a bottle of water. “Call it. We’ll finish and I’ll drive you home.”

He nodded. We added a few scoops of soil without saying anything but gave up before sunrise.

A light violet sky appeared as I drove him across town.

We found his scared, barefoot wife at the door.

Elliott! she cried. “Where have you been?”

He froze. “I can explain—”

She looked at me. “And you are…?”

“Ben,” I waved sheepishly. “We bought your old place.”

She stared at Elliot incredulously. “You didn’t.”

“I really thought it was there,” he muttered.

Her features relaxed. You know what the estate lawyer said, honey. Everything was gone.”

But the journal—

She softly murmured, “It was fiction,” touching his chest. “Your grandfather told tales.”

Cleared my throat. It’s alright. No harm done. Just a huge mess to clean up.”

“I’m sorry,” she said. “We’ll pay for repairs.”

I dismissed her. “We considered a garden. Guess the hard part’s over.”

She chuckled, shocked but thankful.

Elliott looked at me as I left. Ben, thank you. For trusting me one night.”

“You understand. Just say “beer” if you want one.

Smiled, tears in eyes. “I like that.”

Natalie sat up with tea at home.

She inquired groggily, “Where have you been?”

I replied, “You’re not going to believe this,” sitting next her.

I told her everything—from the mystery hole to the midnight dig to the tearful trip home. She laughed after listening with wide eyes.

She shook her head, “Only you.” “Only you would help a guy dig for treasure in your yard.”

“Maybe I didn’t find treasure,” I replied. “But I found a story.”

Her head rested on my shoulder. “Now what?”

I grinned. “Now I fix the yard.”

Kissed my cheek. “And then?”

I added, “And then we have Elliot and Linda over for dinner next week.”

Natalie grinned after pausing. That seems good to me.”

I was surprised to feel thankfulness as I stood by the back door and gazed out over the torn-up grass.

Not all holes yield gold.

Sometimes it leads to someone. A tale. A link.

That may be a gem in itself.