B I stood outside my front door catching my breath. After a lazy Christmas holiday, I had to recover from climbing stairs with carry-on bags and a suitcase. I looked up and blinked. Red tape crossed the door. I didn’t understand Hungarian, but the one English word said enough: “POLICE”. Google Translate told me I would be arrested if I entered, so I didn’t. Finally, I called my rental agent. He went to the police station for more details. My agent returned with authorization to enter. Not only were my files undisturbed, but so were the TV and printer. The burglars had taken a few items from the top drawer as well as a small amount of foreign currency in the bottom drawer. Somehow they hadn’t found the jewelry box in the third drawer. I was in shock. My agent’s words were fuzzy, something about fixing the locks tomorrow and making a list for the police. Then one day, I remembered that I’d left another jewelry box in the flat. My heart sank as I thought of another locket that had been in that box, a gold engraved one with a picture of my late honey Grandma inside. When I realized the box was missing, the whole experience seemed to crash down on me. I cried. At the end of January, I received a registered letter from the police. The burglar hadn’t been found, and the case was closed. I slept with my purse by my bed. I hid my laptop when I showered. And then another challenge rose. I was unexpectedly laid off. Then one July night, I reached into my third drawer, pulled out my jean shorts, and heard a small thud. I looked down and blinked: It was the tiny jewelry box I thought had been stolen six months earlier. Inside was the locket with honey Grandma smiling at me, being there for me, telling me not to give up. I started to cry.