Uncle Varo’s the kind of guy who once pretended to be blind for two whole days just to win a $50 bet from my dad. He’s been in and out of assisted living these past few months, but his sense of humor? Still razor sharp.
Last week, I visited him with a fresh haircut. The second I walked into his room, he squinted at me and went, “Ah, there he is. The barber’s revenge victim.”
Classic Varo.
We talked, we laughed, I showed him pictures of the twins. Then I mentioned I was going to Kosovo next month for work.
That’s when he got weirdly quiet.
“You know,” he said, almost whispering, “I buried something there. But I wasn’t supposed to. I traded it for a train ticket.”
I rolled my eyes.
But suddenly, he grabbed my hand. Tight. His eyes didn’t have that usual glint. There was something else there. Something heavy.
“Listen, I’m not joking. This was 1999. Right before the war ended.”
I nodded, mostly to humor him.
“I wasn’t always an old fool, you know,” he said, voice lower now. “Back then, I was moving across borders, trading things. Some legal. Some not. One time, I found a girl. Well, I say found, but she found me.”
That made me pause. Uncle Varo rarely mentioned anything serious from his past. Especially not women.
“She was maybe seventeen. Maybe younger. Her name was Lirije. Looked like she hadn’t eaten in a week. Carried a satchel with her like it was gold.”
“What was in it?” I asked.
“She never said. Not until we were near the border.”
He looked down at his hands like he was ashamed of them.
“She told me it was her family’s heirlooms. Coins. Jewelry. Stuff they hid when the soldiers came. Her whole village was gone. Burned.”
That’s when my heart shifted. This didn’t sound like a story he was making up. His voice was trembling.
“She begged me to take her with me. Said she’d give me everything in that satchel. I told her I didn’t need it. But the next morning…”
He swallowed hard.
“She was gone. The satchel was still there. Along with a note. ‘Please remember me.’ That’s all it said.”
I didn’t know what to say. I just sat there, quiet.
“I buried the satchel near an old train station. Ferizaj, I think it was called. I needed the train ticket. I sold the silver bracelet to a guy near the tracks. Used the money to get out.”
“Why are you telling me this now?” I asked.
“Because I think about her every damn night. And because I saw on the news last week that station’s being demolished. And I—I just don’t want that to be the end.”
For a moment, I thought about brushing it off. Saying something like “Wow, wild story.” But I didn’t. Something in his eyes said this wasn’t just a punchline.
So I made him a promise.
“I’ll look for it.”
He chuckled. “Right. What, you gonna go treasure hunting on your lunch break?”
“Maybe I will.”
He didn’t laugh. He just nodded and whispered, “Thank you.”
Three weeks later, I landed in Pristina, Kosovo. I was there for a journalism gig—covering the rebuilding of rural schools—but Varo’s story stuck with me.
One Saturday, I took a day off and made my way down to Ferizaj.
It was strange. The station was still standing, but barely. There were cracks in the platform, graffiti everywhere. A few old men played chess nearby. No one paid attention to me.
I had the note Varo gave me. He’d drawn a rough sketch of where he thought he buried the satchel. “Near the north end. Under a white birch.”
There were maybe three birch trees nearby. Two were clearly too young. The third had grown sideways, almost crooked. That had to be it.
I started digging with my hands. Not too deep—maybe eight inches down—I hit something hard.
Wrapped in decaying cloth, but still intact.
It was a small satchel. I pulled it out, heart racing. Looked around. No one was watching. I opened it.
Inside were three silver coins, a locket with a tiny picture of what looked like a family of five, and an intricately carved wooden cross.
And a piece of paper.
Same handwriting as before. “Please remember me.”
I don’t know what I expected. Maybe fireworks. Maybe to feel heroic. But I just felt… quiet. Like I’d touched a ghost.
That night, I called Uncle Varo.
“You won’t believe this,” I said. “I found it.”
He was silent for a second.
“I thought maybe you’d find dirt. Or nothing. You really found it?”
“I did.”
He let out a long breath. “Bring it to me when you get back. Please.”
I brought the satchel home in my carry-on. Showed it to him two days after I landed.
He stared at the locket for almost ten minutes.
“She had a sister,” he mumbled. “She said she didn’t know where she was. That picture… I didn’t even look at it back then.”
He started crying. Not loudly. Just a slow, leaking cry like something had cracked inside.
I’d never seen him cry before. Not even at Grandma’s funeral.
“I was a coward,” he said. “I should’ve helped her. I should’ve—”
“You were young. Scared. The world was different then.”
“I still should’ve tried.”
He took the wooden cross and held it to his lips. Then he asked if I’d help him write a letter.
“To who?” I asked.
“To anyone still alive. To her sister, if she’s out there.”
I helped him write a short piece about what happened, with pictures of the satchel’s contents. We sent it to a Facebook group dedicated to survivors of the Kosovo conflict.
Didn’t expect much.
But two weeks later, we got a reply.
It was from a woman named Blerta. She lived in Tirana now, worked as a schoolteacher. She said the locket matched a photo she remembered from her childhood. Said her sister had gone missing in 1999.
Her sister’s name?
Lirije.
Blerta asked if she could come visit.
When she arrived, she brought flowers for Uncle Varo. Not out of joy, but respect.
“I don’t blame you,” she told him. “You did more than most people would’ve.”
They talked for hours. About the war. About their families. About the way grief stays quiet in your bones for decades.
And then she said something that I’ll never forget.
“You kept her alive. In your memory. That means something.”
Before she left, she gave Varo a small gift. A painted stone with Lirije’s name on it. She said she made one for every person she lost.
He placed it next to his bed.
A few months later, Uncle Varo passed away.
Peacefully. In his sleep.
At the funeral, Blerta showed up. She stood near the back, holding the satchel.
“I thought maybe he’d want to be buried with it,” she said.
My family agreed. So we did.
Now, every time I think of Varo, I don’t think of the jokes. I think of the way he looked when he held that wooden cross. Like he was finally forgiven.
And I think of Lirije. And how a man who once lied about being blind for $50 ended up doing the most honest thing he’d ever done in his life.
We all make mistakes. Sometimes big ones. But it’s never too late to do something good.
Maybe the best punchlines in life are the ones that surprise you—not with a laugh, but with a little bit of grace.
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