When my grandmother passed away, her house filled with relatives eager for the reading of her will. They whispered about jewelry, property, and savings, their eyes glinting with greed. But mine were fixed on Berta, Grandma’s old golden retriever, sitting quietly by the door as if waiting for her to return. No one wanted her—some even suggested a shelter. I remembered Grandma’s words: “Whoever loves Berta loves me too.” So, I took her home, unaware that choice would change everything.

Over the next few weeks, Berta became my quiet companion after long hospital shifts. One evening, while brushing her fur, I noticed something odd: a small latch under her nameplate. Hidden inside was a tiny key and a set of engraved numbers—like a locker code.

Curiosity got the better of me. A few days later, I went to the old train station and found locker 112. Inside was an envelope marked “For Meredith.” My hands trembled as I opened it to reveal Grandma’s handwriting and a legal document—her true will.

She wrote that whoever cared for Berta willingly, without expecting anything in return, would inherit her estate. “Compassion,” she said, “is the truest measure of love.” I barely finished reading when I heard voices—my relatives had followed me. Suspicion filled the air.

Just then, Grandma’s lawyer, Mr. Johnson, appeared. He examined the papers and confirmed their authenticity. The will was valid, and I was the rightful heir. Silence filled the station as realization replaced greed.

Tears welled as I clutched Grandma’s letter, feeling both gratitude and awe. Her test wasn’t about wealth—it was about heart.

With the inheritance, I funded care programs at my hospital, helping families in need. Berta rested her head on my lap, a living reminder that kindness always leads us home.