Saturday morning comes by way of a rainy monsoon. It's already 8 AM, but still looks light nighttime thanks to the gray sky. The pitter-patter against my window makes it extra hard to roll myself out of my cozy bed.

I fumble around my comforter for my phone. All my texts are from Sharvi, reminding me about spin and also asking to borrow my cream blouse for her dinner with Ben's parents this week.

I pull on my fuzzy socks and brew some coffee. This is perfect reading-writing weather, and, after I situate my parfait on the end table, I turn on the TV for some appropriate background noise. A holiday movie seems perfect for today. I flip my laptop open and start by reading emails.

It's all junk at first –discount codes for clothing boutiques, coupons for BOGO coffees, an invite to view my updated FICO score. Blah blah. My finger stops scrolling down the from column when I reach the name of a law firm.

SCHRUTER & BROWN

Pine Valley Law

My eyes hover over the town. Pine Valley.

It has been years since I've even thought about the small would-be-to-anyone-else quaint town. More of a village, really, considering the population is approximately 300.

I had no reason to, after all.

I click open the email.

Dear Ms. Winters,

Schruter & Brown requests your immediate attention regarding the last will and testament of one Arthur H. Winters of Pine Valley.

Please respond to this email or call the office number provided below to schedule your in-person appointment at your earliest convenience.

We look forward to hearing back from you.

Best,

Schruter & Brown

I reread the email three more times before I start retaining the words. Will and testament? In-person appointment? Arthur Winters was my father's father. We used to spend Christmases at his farm in Pine Valley years and years ago. The tradition sort of died out. And I haven't been back since my parents passed.

I debate several things at once. Calling the number. Deleting the email. Ignoring it. Tidal waves of emotion wash over me: panic, fear, sadness, and nostalgia. Once my heart and head recollect themselves, I open the keypad on my phone and start dialing the number.

Ring. Ring.

"Hello, Schruter & Brown of Pine Valley." A woman answers the line. "How may I help you today?"

"Hi. Hello, I am Evie Winters. I received an email early this morning–" I begin.

"Yes, Ms. Winters, of course. Please hold while I forward your call to Mr. Brown."

"Thank you," I say as the line turns.

Seven seconds of elevator music later, a man picks up.

"Ms. Winters?" He asks.

"Yes."

"Hello, I am Harold Brown. Thank you for reaching out to us so quickly."

"The email seemed rather urgent–"

"I'll jump right to it," Mr. Brown almost cuts me off. "An Arthur Winters of Pine Valley passed last month and we are settling his will. We came across your name as the sole beneficiary. Are you his..." He sort of trails off.

"Granddaughter," I answer.

"Right, yes," he says, clearly disinterested. "Well, we'll need you to come in for some paperwork, the walk through, and–"

"Walk through?" I ask. "Isn't there a Docu-Sign or something you can send?"

"Afraid we're a bit old fashioned up here. You'll need to come in person."

"I –okay." I find myself agreeing to the three-hour trek upstate.

"We have an opening Monday at 9:00 AM," Mr. Brown says.

"This Monday?" I almost choke on my coffee.

"Yes, Monday, November 18th," he says. "Would you like to take it?"

I mull this over. It's Saturday morning. I'd have to leave tomorrow –toss some things in a bag and hop a train. It's doable. Even with spin class in the morning.

"Ms. Winters? Hello?"

Mr. Brown's voice snaps me out of my daydream.

"Yes, I'll make it."

"Thank you. We'll see you Monday morning. Our offices can be found in the brick building across from Town Square. Good day."

The phone line cuts off before I can even respond.

I pull my Maps app open to search it, my parfait abandoned. 

The little red pin, nestled between a mountain range and impossibly large forest, shows me Pine valley is exactly two hours and 53 minutes upstate. Hazy memories of Pine Valley come flooding back. I picture the town as I remember it –a rural village with exactly one street that runs right down the middle. Remembering the old family farm –that's a different story.

Train schedules are next. The Sunday schedule is sporadic and only every other train makes it out to Pine Valley. If I take the 1:00 PM train, I should make it there by 4:47 PM.

I let the hallmark movie play without really paying it any attention. The instrumental music between scenes keeps me connected to my living room where I'm sprawled across the floor rummaging through my old card box.

I flip through the cards until I find the ones I'm looking for. I stare at the happy trio of faces staring up at me from in front of Christmas trees. It's the plaid-striped pajamas that really get me. My parents always had us dress matching for our annual Christmas card.

The fire-engine red 2012 is on the bottom of the last card we sent out as a family. It was taken outside the front entrance to Winters Rink, the old handmade ice rink at my grandfather's farm. We wore ugly sweaters that year.

It's also the last Christmas I spent in Pine Valley. And the last year Winters Rink, once the town's grandest and most popular attraction, welcomed guests.

My hand-painted cardboard card box holds more than just old Christmas cards. I pull out little notes I passed back and forth with friends in elementary school, some post-its covered in doodles, and then my hands fine what I've been looking for.

I look at the square polaroid, taken some 20 years ago now. I see my eight-year-old self, perched on a hay bale next to Pony, my favorite pony at the farm. My grandfather is standing beside me, holding a pumpkin in one hand and Pony's reins in the other.

I welcome the sadness now, inviting myself to share a moment with all my memories of my GP. Perhaps returning to Pine Valley after all these years will be exactly what I need.