I never questioned the strange little ritual. Every year on my birthday, my grandfather would hand me a single green plastic soldier. No card. No explanation.
Just a silent, knowing smile as he placed the toy into my palm, wrapped in old newspaper, as if it was part of some secret only he understood.
At first, I figured it was just Grandpa being Grandpa — quirky, playful, full of quiet mischief. But I never imagined that, decades later, those tiny green soldiers would lead me straight into the most incredible mystery of my life.
My grandfather Henry was the kind of man who carried magic in his back pocket. Even brushing his teeth, he would hum old riddles under his breath, as if the world was one big puzzle only he could solve. When I was a kid, he’d turn our backyard into elaborate scavenger hunts with cryptic clues: “T
