When Karen and I came home early from vacation, the last thing I expected was to find a giant hole in our backyard. At first, I wanted to call the cops—but the shovel at the bottom made me hesitate. Something told me the digger might come back.That night, I kept watch. Sure enough, a shadow slipped over the fence and climbed into the pit. I stormed outside, ready to call the police, only to recognize him—George, the man who’d sold us our house.

He looked guilty but desperate. George admitted his grandfather once owned the property and had supposedly buried something valuable there. “Help me dig,” he begged, “and we’ll split whatever we find.” Against my better judgment, I agreed.All night, we dug side by side, swapping stories between shovelfuls. George had lost his job, and his wife was sick.

Hope fueled him, but by dawn we’d uncovered nothing but rocks and roots. Still, I couldn’t help but feel an odd bond forming between us.When I dropped George home, his wife Margaret scolded him gently, calling the treasure hunt a fantasy. George looked crushed, and I felt a pang of sympathy. Before I left, I told him, “If you ever want to grab a beer, give me a call.”

Back at home, Karen laughed when I told her what had happened. “Only you would spend all night digging for treasure with a stranger,” she said. And maybe she was right. We hadn’t found gold or jewels, but I realized some treasures aren’t buried in the ground—they’re found in the unexpected friendships we stumble upon.