Chapter 1: The Memorial Day Request

The scent of fresh-cut grass and sun-warmed stone always means Memorial Day at Maple Heights. But this year, the request buzzing on my phone made my hands sweat: Could I burn real cash for the dead?

Every May, my phone blows up with families who can’t make it home—or just don’t want to. I tidy graves, lay flowers, scrub off bird crap. Sometimes I light a candle or leave a flag. But this? Someone wanted me to torch real, honest-to-God U.S. dollars. For the dead.

"Wait, you want me to torch real cash? Not the fake stuff with dragons and Heaven Bank Notes? That’s—like, actually illegal."

Honestly, people always want the paper offerings—those gold-foil sheets, or the play-money bills stamped 'HEAVEN BANK NOTE.' Nobody in their right mind asks for the real thing unless they want the Secret Service at their door.

But this person was relentless: whatever amount of real money I burned, they’d match it, dollar for dollar.

Double-text, too: 'I'm absolutely serious. Dollar for dollar.'

I just stood there, staring at my phone like it had grown fangs. Who does that? Was this a scam? Or some kind of test?

A quick law search confirmed it: burning U.S. currency can get you fined or even arrested.

I spent an hour doom-scrolling government websites, Reddit threads, and lawyer blogs. It was all there—big fines, possible jail, definite regrets. Not exactly my idea of a holiday memory.

I was still hesitating when my phone buzzed so hard I nearly dropped it. Thirty grand. I checked the notification, then checked again, half-convinced I’d hallucinated.

Was this some kind of prank? Or a test?

That kind of money could wipe out my student loans and then some. My hands shook as I typed my reply.

Thirty grand is Venmo’s transfer limit, but apparently not my new employer’s. She asked for my bank info and started zapping me money: twenty here, fifty there, sometimes five grand at a time. My notifications stacked up faster than my nerves.

My bank balance shot up to $150,000. I stared at the zeroes. I kept waiting for the app to crash or the bank to call and freeze my account.

I’d never seen so much money in my life. The most I’d ever held was maybe a thousand in twenties—payday at the hardware store. This was... next level.

I texted: "You want me to withdraw half of this and burn it?" She’d said I could keep whatever I didn’t burn. Splitting it seemed fair, not greedy. At least, that was my logic.

But she shot back: No need. Someone would bring the money to me. Just wait at home.

She even called, her voice clipped and businesslike: "Just stay home. Someone will deliver it. Don’t worry."

I splashed my face with ice-cold water in the bathroom, pinched my arm. The numbers in my bank were still there, clear as day. I wasn’t dreaming.

I paced my living room, the TV on mute. Outside, someone mowed their lawn, the hum drifting through the window. My cat watched me from the armchair, tail twitching. I felt like I was waiting for a mob drop, not a delivery.

Half an hour later, just after dusk, there was a knock at the door. The street was quiet, porch lights coming on, kids chasing fireflies. My heart hammered as I peeked through the peephole.

A kindly old lady stood outside, wearing a vintage floral dress and a warm, TV-grandma smile. Her white hair was soft and perfectly coiffed.

She looked so harmless, like she should be carrying a Tupperware of brownies, not a suitcase full of cash. My nerves jangled anyway.

She struggled to drag a heavy suitcase. "Just call me Aunt Martha, dear." Her voice had a gentle Midwestern lilt.

The suitcase was heavy—like a car battery. The handle bit into my palm as I lugged it inside, heart thumping.

When I opened it, I nearly fainted. Stacks of cash, bound in crisp bands. The kind you see in movies or FBI raids. The scent of ink and cotton punched the air.

Aunt Martha smiled, "This is exactly one hundred and fifty thousand."

She said it like she was talking about a bag of flour. I just gawked at the piles of twenties, fifties, hundreds.

"Aunt Martha, which grave at Maple Heights Cemetery do you want me to burn it for?" I asked, picturing the cemetery map in my head.

But she said, "No need to go to the cemetery—just burn it at home. There’s a memorial plaque in the suitcase."

That threw me. Most folks want a grave-side gesture. I kept my face polite, but my mind spun.

Sometimes I set up little shrines with photos, old baseball caps, or favorite snacks. Once, I arranged a whole Memorial Day picnic for a Vietnam vet. Home rituals aren’t unheard of—just never with this much money.

Aunt Martha seemed the type who planned everything, down to the velvet-wrapped plaque at the bottom of the suitcase.

I emptied the cash and found the plaque—but I couldn’t read the writing. Not English, Spanish, French, or German. Just densely packed lines, ancient and squiggly.

I squinted, tracing the lines with my thumb. Was it Greek? Cyrillic? Nothing matched. The hair on my neck prickled.