The Puzzle at Mile Marker 7
A short mystery adventure featuring Roberta & Dennis
It was supposed to be a simple run.
Roberta had mapped it out that morning, lacing up her shoes with the calm precision of someone who knew every turn of the local trails. Dennis, meanwhile, was trying to sync his fitness tracker with an app called “CouchTornado.” It promised to monitor his heart rate and order tacos if he passed out.
“Just pace yourself,” Roberta said, already stretching. “It’s not a race.”
Dennis grunted. “It is literally called a run, Roberta. It’s not a nap.”
At mile marker 3, Dennis was breathing like a broken accordion. At mile 5, he began negotiating with his knees. But at mile marker 7, Roberta suddenly stopped.
“Wait… what’s this?”
There, tucked under the wooden post, was a small brass box — tarnished, old, and held shut by a strange puzzle lock etched with symbols that looked vaguely Celtic.
“Is that… a geocache?” Dennis squinted.
“Not unless geocachers use 500-year-old locking mechanisms,” Roberta replied. “Look at the inscription.”
“‘The path to the answer begins where the puzzle ends.’ …That’s vague.”
Roberta smiled. “It’s fun.”
Dennis muttered something about just wanting electrolytes, but Roberta was already pulling out her phone, opening a puzzle app she kept tucked in a folder labeled “Victory.”
Back at home, she spread out photos of the box and started piecing together its logic like a master codebreaker. Dennis, meanwhile, was draped across the couch with frozen peas on his knees, pretending to offer moral support.
The puzzle required matching runes to compass directions. Solving it unlocked the lid. Inside: a folded note.
“Find the next piece, where family and fire meet.”
“Sounds like Grandma’s house,” Dennis offered.
Roberta already had her coat.
They arrived at Roberta’s grandmother’s home, a cozy, wood-scented place filled with old photos, hand-knit afghans, and more warmth than the sun. Roberta hugged her tightly, then began scanning the fireplace mantle.
There it was — a dusty picture frame with a small emblem tucked behind it. A second piece of the puzzle.
“Still chasing riddles, sweet girl?” her grandmother asked.
“Always,” Roberta grinned.
Over the next two days, the clues led them across town — to the library archives, a park bench engraved with coordinates, and finally to a closed toy store that once belonged to Roberta’s uncle.
Inside, hidden in the rafters, was the final box. This one was different. Inside was a letter:
“To my granddaughter — if you’re reading this, it means you solved what your uncle never could. This was his obsession, and he wanted someone clever enough to finish it. I always hoped it would be you.”
Roberta blinked. Dennis, for once, was silent.
At the bottom of the box was a small, carved wooden key — and a deed to a tiny lakeside cabin, left in her name.
The following weekend, they visited the cabin.
Quiet. Peaceful. Full of unfinished puzzles and hand-drawn maps. It was Roberta’s dream in analog form. She stood on the porch, wind in her hair, the lake glittering ahead.
Dennis stumbled out of the Bronco with three bags, two folding chairs, and a Bluetooth speaker that refused to turn off.
“So,” he said, “this all started because you wanted to go for a jog.”
Roberta laughed. “No. It started because you couldn’t keep up.”
He dropped the bags and walked up beside her.
“Yeah, but I kept going anyway.”
She smiled, leaned in, and kissed his cheek.
“That’s why we’re a team.”
Disclaimer from the Department of Dumbassery
These stories are 100% fiction, written by Dennis for the sheer joy of storytelling, caffeine-fueled inspiration, and occasional dramatic flair.
Do not attempt to reboot haunted Roombas, operate ancient puzzle boxes without supervision, or bring honey near celestial machinery.
Any resemblance to real people, pets, or smart appliances is purely coincidental… unless it’s funny.
Thanks for reading — now go solve a mystery, drink your coffee, and be a little legendary.