At my wedding, my grandfather handed me an old savings book. My father snatched it from my hands, saying, “That bank closed in the 80s. It’s lost.” My grandfather died shortly after. I went to the bank anyway. The manager looked through the files, glanced up at me, and said, “Sir, perhaps you should sit down…”

“You already have the savings account,” Preston said to me with a smirk. “Enjoy your fifty cents, little brother.”

They left. All of them. My father, my mother, Preston, Bridget. They walked out of the lawyer’s office without looking back, already discussing the sale of Grandpa Chester’s house. I stayed behind. Howard stared at me with an unreadable expression.

“Mr. Mercer,” he said once the others had left, “your grandfather was a remarkable man.”

“I know.”

“Really? Do you really know?”

I didn’t understand what he meant. Not at that moment. But I would have understood it.

The next morning, I went to the bank.

I don’t know why that morning. Maybe it was Preston’s sly grin. Maybe it was my father’s laugh. Maybe it was simply the right moment. Finally, after five years of hesitation. Maybe it was the feeling that if I didn’t go now, I never would, and I’d spend the rest of my life wondering.

I woke up at five o’clock, as always before leaving for work. But instead of putting on my work clothes and leaving, I sat on the edge of the bed and looked at the savings book. I’d taken it out of my nightstand drawer the night before, the first time I’d really looked at it in months. The cover was soft with age, the corners rounded from decades of use. The inside pages were yellowed, the ink faded but still legible. March 15, 1971. $8,000. My grandfather’s handwriting. Neat and tidy.

Naomi woke up and found me sitting there.

“Declan, what are you doing?”

“I’m going to the bank.”

“What?”

“The savings book. Grandpa’s savings book. I’m going to see if there’s anything in it.”

She sat up and rubbed her eyes.

“Now? It’s five in the morning.”

“I know. I… I have to know. I’ve been asking myself this question for five years, and I need to know.”

She looked at me for a long time. Then she nodded.

“Okay. Do you want me to come with you?”

“No. It’s something I have to do alone.”

I changed into my work clothes because I had to go to a construction site next, and I drove to the National Ohio Bank branch downtown. It was the largest branch in town, the one most likely to have records going back several decades. I arrived before opening time and sat in my truck in the parking lot, watching the employees arrive and the lights come on inside. At precisely nine o’clock, I walked through the doors.

The branch was modern, all glass, chrome, and digital screens. Nothing like the old savings banks of my childhood. I immediately felt out of place, me, a man in work boots and a flannel shirt, holding a yellowed passbook from a bank that hadn’t existed for decades. I waited in line like everyone else. I watched the tellers serve customers with their usual requests: deposits, withdrawals, account inquiries, routine banking transactions for ordinary people, on a morning like any other.

When it was my turn, I approached the counter. The cashier was young, maybe twenty-five years old, with a professional smile and a badge that said Jennifer.

“How can I help you today, sir?”