Then it hit me. A few weeks earlier, my grandmother had stayed with me for a weekend. She’s always been quietly spiritual — the kind of woman who leaves prayers folded inside drawers and murmurs blessings when she waters her plants.
That evening, I called her.
“Grandma,” I said, half amused, half curious. “Did you put something under my mattress?”
There was a pause — then her soft, familiar chuckle.
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