One autumn morning, I finally got rid of our disgusting old couch—moldy, creaky, and reeking of must. My husband, Bryce, had always brushed off my pleas to replace it, which was unlike his practical nature. That day, I called a hauling service, and by afternoon, it was gone.

But when Bryce came home, he panicked. “We have to get it back!” Confused, I followed him to the landfill, where he frantically searched the couch’s upholstery. Inside, he found a faded childhood map—drawn by him and his late brother, Leo, who died in an accident when they were kids.