Beneath the rich, damp soil, Alexander’s fingers hit something solid. He brushed away the earth, revealing the edge of a rusted tin box—one he hadn’t seen in all his decades tending the land.

With trembling hands, he pried it open.

Inside was a sealed envelope with his name written in James’s unmistakable handwriting. The letter read:

> *“My dear friend Alexander,
> If you’re reading this, then I’m gone—and likely my son has shown his true colors. You’ve been more of a brother to me than blood ever was. That’s why I’ve left you what truly matters.*
> *Check with the notary—my final wish is buried deeper than this garden.”*

Heart pounding, Alexander went to the notary’s office the next morning. What he learned left him in tears: James had rewritten his will years ago, leaving the **entire estate**—the land, the manor, everything—to **Alexander**, citing his loyalty, integrity, and decades of service.

Steward had no idea… and no claim.

When the legal documents were delivered, Steward showed up in disbelief. “This is a joke, right? This is *my* inheritance!”

Alexander looked him in the eye and said calmly, **“You buried kindness. James planted justice.”**