January 2026 Runner Up: Hives

When the solicitor read the will, nobody mentioned the bees.

They argued over silver, over paintings, over the farmhouse roof. I waited. At the end, he cleared his throat. “And to Clara, the hives.” My cousins laughed.

The bees had always followed me. Grandfather said they liked quiet hearts. After the funeral, I walked alone to the orchard. The boxes hummed, low and furious.

I lifted a lid.

Inside, laid in perfect hexagons, were dozens of small brass keys, each tagged with a name belonging to someone in the village.

Grandfather never kept honey.

He kept secrets.

Now they are mine.