{"id":5716,"date":"2026-06-23T02:21:58","date_gmt":"2026-06-23T02:21:58","guid":{"rendered":"https:\/\/redditlovers.live\/?p=5716"},"modified":"2026-06-23T02:21:58","modified_gmt":"2026-06-23T02:21:58","slug":"after-my-neighbors-funeral-a-lawyer-called-my-name-and-handed-me-an-old-suitcase-what-was-inside-left-me-speechless","status":"publish","type":"post","link":"https:\/\/redditlovers.live\/?p=5716","title":{"rendered":"After my neighbor\u2019s funeral, a lawyer called my name and handed me an old suitcase. What was inside left me speechless."},"content":{"rendered":"
\n
For years, my Sundays followed the same simple routine, and I never once questioned it. I thought I was just helping an old neighbor, but I had no idea how much those ordinary mornings would come to mean.<\/div>\n<\/div>\n
\n
\n
\"\"<\/div>\n<\/div>\n
\n

The street was quiet that Sunday morning, the type of morning you only experience in a suburb where everyone\u2019s still nursing their first coffee. I was 28 years old, standing on my driveway with the recycling bin, watching the maple leaves drift down two houses over.<\/p>\n<\/div>\n

\n

It was the most ordinary moment of my life, which is probably why I remember it so clearly.<\/p>\n<\/div>\n

\n

Ezra had lived next door for years. We\u2019d waved from our driveways, traded quick hellos, and gone right back to our own days. I couldn\u2019t have told you the color of his front door without checking.<\/p>\n<\/div>\n

\n
\n

It was the most ordinary moment of my life.<\/p>\n<\/blockquote>\n<\/div>\n

\n
<\/div>\n<\/div>\n
\n

That morning, I saw Ezra fumbling with four grocery bags in his trunk. One slipped, caught on his elbow, and almost hit the pavement. I walked over before I\u2019d thought about it.<\/p>\n

<\/div>\n<\/div>\n
\n

\u201cLet me grab those,\u201d I said.<\/p>\n<\/div>\n

\n

\u201cOh, you don\u2019t have to,\u201d my neighbor said.<\/p>\n<\/div>\n

\n

\u201cI know. Come on.\u201d<\/p>\n<\/div>\n

\n

He didn\u2019t argue after that. I carried the bags up his porch and into a kitchen that smelled of old wood and instant coffee. The old man moved slowly and carefully, the way men do when they\u2019ve been alone a long time.<\/p>\n<\/div>\n

\n
\n

\u201cLet me grab those.\u201d<\/p>\n<\/blockquote>\n<\/div>\n

\n
<\/div>\n<\/div>\n
\n

\u201cSit down for a minute,\u201d Ezra said. \u201cThe least I can do is pour you a cup of coffee.\u201d<\/p>\n<\/div>\n

\n

I almost said no because I wasn\u2019t the coffee-with-strangers kind of guy. But something about the way he asked, as if he half expected me to leave, made me pull out a chair.<\/p>\n<\/div>\n

\n

\u201cOne cup,\u201d I said. \u201cThen I\u2019ve gotta go check on my gutters.\u201d<\/p>\n<\/div>\n

\n

My neighbor laughed. It was a small, surprised sound.<\/p>\n<\/div>\n

\n
\n

I almost said no.<\/p>\n<\/blockquote>\n<\/div>\n

\n
<\/div>\n<\/div>\n
\n

***<\/p>\n<\/div>\n

\n

We ended up talking for nearly an hour!<\/p>\n<\/div>\n

\n

Ezra told me about the neighborhood back when there were still cornfields where the elementary school sits. I told him about my life and how I\u2019d moved in, thinking I would only stay two years.<\/p>\n<\/div>\n

\n

\u201cFunny how that works,\u201d he said. \u201cI told my wife the same thing about this place in 1971!\u201d<\/p>\n<\/div>\n

\n

My neighbor mentioned a nephew once, somewhere in the middle. Marcus, I think. He said the name the way people say a cousin\u2019s name they used to know, with a little pause afterward.<\/p>\n<\/div>\n

\n
\n

\u201cFunny how that works.\u201d<\/p>\n<\/blockquote>\n<\/div>\n

\n
<\/div>\n<\/div>\n
\n

\u201cHe calls sometimes,\u201d Ezra said. \u201cWhen he needs something.\u201d<\/p>\n<\/div>\n

\n

The old man shrugged as if it didn\u2019t matter, but his eyes stayed on his cup a beat too long. I didn\u2019t push it. It wasn\u2019t my business, and he didn\u2019t seem to want it to be.<\/p>\n<\/div>\n

\n

When I stood up to leave, I knocked on the doorframe.<\/p>\n<\/div>\n

\n

\u201cHey, next time you get groceries, just call me. Save your back,\u201d I joked.<\/p>\n<\/div>\n

\n
\n

\u201cI wouldn\u2019t want to bother you.\u201d<\/p>\n<\/blockquote>\n<\/div>\n

\n

\u201cThen don\u2019t think of it as a bother.\u201d<\/p>\n<\/div>\n

\n
\n

\u201cHe calls sometimes.\u201d<\/p>\n<\/blockquote>\n<\/div>\n

\n
<\/div>\n<\/div>\n
\n

My neighbor smiled at that, slow and a little crooked.<\/p>\n<\/div>\n

\n

I walked back across the strip of grass between our houses with my hands in my pockets, thinking I\u2019d done a small, decent thing on a slow Sunday, nothing more. I had no idea that one cup of coffee had just started a clock that would run for the next 12 years.<\/p>\n<\/div>\n

\n

***<\/p>\n<\/div>\n

\n

Twelve years. That\u2019s how long one helpful Sunday turned into a quiet ritual neither of us ever named.<\/p>\n<\/div>\n

\n

Ezra\u2019s health slipped in small ways at first. A slower walk to the mailbox. A hand that trembled when he poured coffee. Then driving became too much for him, and I started picking up his groceries every Sunday without either of us making it official.<\/p>\n<\/div>\n

\n
\n

I had no idea.<\/p>\n<\/blockquote>\n<\/div>\n

\n
<\/div>\n<\/div>\n
\n

***<\/p>\n<\/div>\n

\n

In the first few weeks, Ezra tried to press cash into my palm at the door.<\/p>\n<\/div>\n

\n

\u201cAnthony, take it. I\u2019m not a charity case.\u201d<\/p>\n<\/div>\n

\n

\u201cEzra, I\u2019m already going to the store. It\u2019s the same trip.\u201d<\/p>\n<\/div>\n

\n
\n

\u201cThen take it for the gas.\u201d<\/p>\n<\/blockquote>\n<\/div>\n

\n

\u201cNext week,\u201d I\u2019d say, knowing I wouldn\u2019t.<\/p>\n<\/div>\n

\n

Eventually, he stopped offering, and we settled into something better. I\u2019d put the milk in the fridge, the bread on the counter, and we\u2019d sit at his small kitchen table with two mugs between us.<\/p>\n<\/div>\n

\n
\n

\u201cI\u2019m not a charity case.\u201d<\/p>\n<\/blockquote>\n<\/div>\n

\n
<\/div>\n<\/div>\n
\n

***<\/p>\n<\/div>\n

\n

Some Sundays, we talked about his late wife, Margaret, and the garden she used to keep. On others, Ezra asked about my job, my marriage, and whether my wife, Claire, and I had decided on kids. And on some Sundays, we said almost nothing and watched the birds at his feeder.<\/p>\n<\/div>\n

\n

I didn\u2019t think of it as anything special. It was just what I did on Sundays.<\/p>\n<\/div>\n

\n

***<\/p>\n<\/div>\n

\n

Claire and I got married when I was 38, and she noticed how special my Sundays with Ezra were.<\/p>\n<\/div>\n

\n

\u201cYou\u2019re going over there again?\u201d she asked one morning, half-teasing, half not.<\/p>\n<\/div>\n

\n
\n

\u201cIt\u2019s an hour. Maybe two.\u201d<\/p>\n<\/blockquote>\n<\/div>\n

\n
\n

We said almost nothing.<\/p>\n<\/blockquote>\n<\/div>\n

\n
<\/div>\n<\/div>\n
\n

\u201cYou\u2019re really going to keep doing this every week? For years?\u201d my wife asked.<\/p>\n<\/div>\n

\n

\u201cEzra doesn\u2019t have anyone else,\u201d I protested.<\/p>\n<\/div>\n

\n

Claire softened then, the way she always did, and handed me a tin of the cookies she\u2019d baked the night before.<\/p>\n<\/div>\n

\n

\u201cTake these to him. And tell him I said hello.\u201d<\/p>\n<\/div>\n

\n

I did.<\/p>\n<\/div>\n

\n

***<\/p>\n<\/div>\n

\n

Ezra held the tin as if it were something precious and asked me three times to thank her.<\/p>\n<\/div>\n

\n

That was the Sunday he mentioned Marcus again, the one who only called when something was wrong with his car, his rent, or some scheme that needed a small loan.<\/p>\n<\/div>\n

\n
\n

\u201cTake these to him.\u201d<\/p>\n<\/blockquote>\n<\/div>\n

\n
<\/div>\n<\/div>\n
\n

\u201cMarcus came by last month,\u201d Ezra said, stirring his coffee in slow circles. \u201cAsked me what I was planning to do with the house.\u201d<\/p>\n<\/div>\n

\n

\u201cWhat did you tell him?\u201d I asked.<\/p>\n<\/div>\n

\n
\n

\u201cI told him I was planning to keep living in it.\u201d<\/p>\n<\/blockquote>\n<\/div>\n

\n

He smiled at that, but the smile didn\u2019t reach his eyes. I left it at that.<\/p>\n<\/div>\n

\n

I left that afternoon thinking I should bring Claire and introduce her properly. Ezra would\u2019ve liked that, but I never got the chance.<\/p>\n<\/div>\n

\n
\n

\u201cWhat did you tell him?\u201d<\/p>\n<\/blockquote>\n<\/div>\n

\n
<\/div>\n<\/div>\n
\n

***<\/p>\n<\/div>\n

\n

I noticed the porch light first.<\/p>\n<\/div>\n

\n

It was the following Sunday, a bright October morning, and\u00a0my neighbor<\/a>\u2018s porch light was still burning at 9 a.m. Ezra never left it on past sunrise. He was particular about things like that, the small habits of a man who\u2019d lived alone too long.<\/p>\n<\/div>\n

\n

I stood on my driveway with the newspaper in my hand and stared at that yellow bulb glowing against the daylight. Something felt wrong, but I told myself he\u2019d just forgotten and that I\u2019d mention it when I dropped off the groceries.<\/p>\n<\/div>\n

\n
\n

I noticed the porch light first.<\/p>\n<\/blockquote>\n<\/div>\n

\n
<\/div>\n<\/div>\n
\n

I went inside to finish my coffee and read the headlines, but I couldn\u2019t focus.<\/p>\n<\/div>\n

\n

***<\/p>\n<\/div>\n

\n

By noon, the ambulance pulled up to Ezra\u2019s house. When I went out, a neighbor across the street told me what I already knew. Ezra had passed away in his sleep. Peacefully, they said. He was 84 years old, and I was 40.<\/p>\n<\/div>\n

\n

I stood on his lawn for a long time after everyone left, looking at the porch light somebody had finally switched off. Claire found me there an hour later and didn\u2019t say anything. She just took my hand.<\/p>\n<\/div>\n

\n
\n

The ambulance pulled up.<\/p>\n<\/blockquote>\n<\/div>\n

\n
<\/div>\n<\/div>\n
\n

***<\/p>\n<\/div>\n

\n

The funeral was smaller than I had expected. Much smaller.<\/p>\n<\/div>\n

\n

A handful of distant acquaintances stood near the back, a tired pastor read from a worn book, and I kept thinking about how Ezra had deserved a fuller room than that.<\/p>\n<\/div>\n

\n

Across the aisle, one man stood out. He wore a sharp dark suit and kept glancing at his phone, his thumb moving as if the service were an inconvenience.<\/p>\n<\/div>\n

\n

When the service ended, I was about to leave when the man walked straight toward me.<\/p>\n<\/div>\n

\n
\n

One man stood out.<\/p>\n<\/blockquote>\n<\/div>\n

\n
<\/div>\n<\/div>\n
\n

\u201cYou must be the grocery guy,\u201d he said, offering a hand that felt more like a transaction than a greeting. \u201cI\u2019m Marcus, Ezra\u2019s nephew.\u201d<\/p>\n<\/div>\n

\n

\u201cAnthony,\u201d I replied. \u201cI\u2019m sorry for your loss.\u201d<\/p>\n<\/div>\n

\n

He gave a thin smile.<\/p>\n<\/div>\n

\n

\u201cSure. Over a decade of Sunday visits, huh? That\u2019s a lot of free time to invest in an old man.\u201d<\/p>\n<\/div>\n

\n

I felt my jaw tighten, but I kept my voice level.<\/p>\n<\/div>\n

\n
\n

\u201cHe was my friend.\u201d<\/p>\n<\/blockquote>\n<\/div>\n

\n

\u201cRight,\u201d Marcus looked past me toward the casket. \u201cWell, friend or not, the house is going on the market fast. I\u2019ve already got someone interested. No point in letting it sit.\u201d<\/p>\n<\/div>\n

\n
\n

\u201cYou must be the grocery guy.\u201d<\/p>\n<\/blockquote>\n<\/div>\n

\n
<\/div>\n<\/div>\n
\n

I didn\u2019t answer. I couldn\u2019t tell if it was grief or anger making my hands cold, but I knew Ezra wouldn\u2019t have wanted a scene at his own funeral.<\/p>\n<\/div>\n

\n

His nephew leaned in slightly.<\/p>\n<\/div>\n

\n

\u201cYou know, people get attached to lonely old folks for all kinds of reasons. I hope your reasons were the good kind.\u201d<\/p>\n<\/div>\n

\n

\u201cI never took a dollar from him,\u201d I said quietly.<\/p>\n<\/div>\n

\n

\u201cThat\u2019s what they all say.\u201d<\/p>\n<\/div>\n

\n

My late neighbor\u2019s nephew walked off before I could reply, already lifting his phone to his ear as if the conversation had never mattered.<\/p>\n<\/div>\n

\n
\n

\u201cThat\u2019s what they all say.\u201d<\/p>\n<\/blockquote>\n<\/div>\n

\n
<\/div>\n<\/div>\n
\n

I stood and watched the last few mourners drift toward the parking lot. I was about to leave again when another man stepped in front of me, holding something at his side.<\/p>\n<\/div>\n

\n

\u201cAre you Anthony? The neighbor who used to help Mr. Harrison?\u201d<\/p>\n<\/div>\n

\n

I nodded.<\/p>\n<\/div>\n

\n

\u201cI am Mr. Whitman. I was Ezra\u2019s lawyer.\u201d<\/p>\n<\/div>\n

\n

He brought up his other hand, and I saw what he was carrying. It was an old, battered suitcase, the leather worn pale at the corners and the latches dull with age.<\/p>\n<\/div>\n

\n
\n

\u201cAre you Anthony?\u201d<\/p>\n<\/blockquote>\n<\/div>\n

\n
<\/div>\n<\/div>\n
\n

\u201cMr. Harrison specifically instructed me to give this to you,\u201d Mr. Whitman said. \u201cHis words were very clear. It had to be private and for you only.\u201d<\/p>\n<\/div>\n

\n

I took it carefully. It was heavier than I expected.<\/p>\n<\/div>\n

\n
\n

\u201cDid he say what\u2019s inside?\u201d<\/p>\n<\/blockquote>\n<\/div>\n

\n

\u201cHe said you\u2019d understand when you opened it.\u201d<\/p>\n<\/div>\n

\n

Before I could ask anything else, I felt a presence at my shoulder.<\/p>\n<\/div>\n

\n

\u201cWhat\u2019s that?\u201d<\/p>\n<\/div>\n

\n

Marcus had crossed the lot fast, his earlier boredom replaced by something sharper.<\/p>\n<\/div>\n

\n
\n

\u201cHis words were very clear.\u201d<\/p>\n<\/blockquote>\n<\/div>\n

\n
<\/div>\n<\/div>\n
\n

\u201cWhatever it is belongs to the estate,\u201d Marcus insisted.<\/p>\n<\/div>\n

\n

Mr. Whitman didn\u2019t flinch.<\/p>\n<\/div>\n

\n

\u201cIt actually doesn\u2019t, Marcus. Your uncle\u2019s instructions were specific and notarized. This item was set aside from the estate years ago.\u201d<\/p>\n<\/div>\n

\n

\u201cYears ago?\u201d Marcus\u2019s voice rose. \u201cHe was being manipulated! That suitcase stays!\u201d<\/p>\n<\/div>\n

\n

\u201cIt doesn\u2019t,\u201d the lawyer said, calm as stone. \u201cAnd if you have concerns, you\u2019re welcome to file them in writing.\u201d<\/p>\n<\/div>\n

\n

Ezra\u2019s nephew turned to me, and I saw something ugly settle behind his eyes.<\/p>\n<\/div>\n

\n
\n

\u201cIt actually doesn\u2019t, Marcus.\u201d<\/p>\n<\/blockquote>\n<\/div>\n

\n
<\/div>\n<\/div>\n
\n
\n

\u201cWhatever\u2019s in there, I\u2019ll find out. Don\u2019t get comfortable!\u201d<\/p>\n<\/blockquote>\n<\/div>\n

\n

I held the suitcase tighter and walked past him without a word.<\/p>\n<\/div>\n

\n

In the car, I set it on the passenger seat and sat for a long moment, both hands on the wheel. My chest ached in a way I didn\u2019t know how to name.<\/p>\n<\/div>\n

\n

I started the engine. Whatever Ezra had left me, I owed it to him to find out.<\/p>\n<\/div>\n

\n

I carried it home, confused and heavy-hearted.<\/p>\n<\/div>\n

\n
\n

I held the suitcase tighter.<\/p>\n<\/blockquote>\n<\/div>\n

\n
<\/div>\n<\/div>\n
\n

***<\/p>\n<\/div>\n

\n

I set the suitcase on the kitchen table and just stared at it for a long minute.<\/p>\n<\/div>\n

\n

Claire, who couldn\u2019t attend the funeral because of work, stood in the doorway, arms crossed, watching me quietly.<\/p>\n<\/div>\n

\n

\u201cOpen it,\u201d she said.<\/p>\n<\/div>\n

\n

The latches clicked.<\/p>\n<\/div>\n

\n

Inside, there was no money or gold, just a thick stack of envelopes, two photo albums, and a worn leather journal.<\/p>\n<\/div>\n

\n

I picked up the top letter. It was in Ezra\u2019s handwriting and dated 12 years ago, the Sunday we first had coffee.<\/p>\n<\/div>\n

\n
<\/div>\n<\/div>\n
\n

There was one for every Sunday after that. Hundreds of them. But he\u2019d never sent them.<\/p>\n<\/div>\n

\n
\n

There was no money or gold.<\/p>\n<\/blockquote>\n<\/div>\n

\n
<\/div>\n<\/div>\n
\n

I opened the journal next, and my hands started shaking.<\/p>\n<\/div>\n

\n

Ezra wrote about a son he\u2019d lost decades ago, a boy named Daniel. Once, when the question of kids came up at the table, my neighbor had gone quiet and eventually said, \u201cMargaret and I had a boy, a long time ago. I don\u2019t talk about it much.\u201d<\/p>\n<\/div>\n

\n

I hadn\u2019t pushed.<\/p>\n<\/div>\n

\n

In the journal, he wrote that somewhere along the way, he\u2019d quietly started thinking of me the way he used to think of Daniel. At the bottom was a sealed envelope with my name on it and a notarized note from the lawyer.<\/p>\n<\/div>\n

\n
\n

Ezra wrote about a son.<\/p>\n<\/blockquote>\n<\/div>\n

\n
<\/div>\n<\/div>\n
\n

Ezra had left instructions years ago that the suitcase was to come to me. He\u2019d updated its contents himself and brought it to Mr. Whitman last month! There was also a modest savings account set aside years ago. It was separate from the estate, untouchable.<\/p>\n<\/div>\n

\n

Claire sat down beside me and read along, her eyes filling.<\/p>\n<\/div>\n

\n

\u201cThe love the two of you shared was truly a thing to behold. It got to me sometimes, I won\u2019t lie, but I\u2019m glad you guys found each other.\u201d<\/p>\n<\/div>\n

\n

We hugged, both of us crying.<\/p>\n<\/div>\n

\n
\n

He\u2019d updated its contents himself.<\/p>\n<\/blockquote>\n<\/div>\n

\n
<\/div>\n<\/div>\n
\n

***<\/p>\n<\/div>\n

\n

Three days later, Marcus showed up at my door.<\/p>\n<\/div>\n

\n

Mr. Whitman had called him that morning to formally notify him that the savings account was excluded from the estate.<\/p>\n<\/div>\n

\n

\u201cYou manipulated my uncle,\u201d Ezra\u2019s nephew snapped. \u201cThat account should\u2019ve been mine!\u201d<\/p>\n<\/div>\n

\n

I went inside and returned with a single letter from the suitcase.<\/p>\n<\/div>\n

\n

When he read it, his jaw tightened.<\/p>\n<\/div>\n

\n

\u201cAs you can see, your uncle wrote that you only called when you wanted something,\u201d I said quietly. \u201cI didn\u2019t make him write that.\u201d<\/p>\n<\/div>\n

\n
\n

Marcus showed up at my door.<\/p>\n<\/blockquote>\n<\/div>\n

\n
<\/div>\n<\/div>\n
\n

Marcus started to say something, stopped, and read the letter a second time.<\/p>\n<\/div>\n

\n

The fight went out of him by degrees.<\/p>\n<\/div>\n

\n

\u201cHe never told me he felt that way,\u201d he muttered, almost to himself.<\/p>\n<\/div>\n

\n

Then, without another word, he walked back to his car and drove off.<\/p>\n<\/div>\n

\n

***<\/p>\n<\/div>\n

\n

I used part of the gift Ezra left me to start something small: a Sunday grocery drive and visit program for elderly folks living alone. I called it the Harrison Sunday Circle.<\/p>\n<\/div>\n

\n
\n

I used part of the gift.<\/p>\n<\/blockquote>\n<\/div>\n

\n
<\/div>\n<\/div>\n
\n

***<\/p>\n<\/div>\n

\n

Every Sunday morning, I read one of Ezra\u2019s letters before leaving the house.<\/p>\n<\/div>\n

\n

I realized that the suitcase was never about its contents. It was about a man who never forgot a single Sunday and a quiet reminder that showing up is never wasted.<\/p>\n<\/div>\n

\n

I miss my friend dearly. May he rest in eternal peace.<\/p>\n

The End<\/h1>\n<\/div>\n<\/div>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":"

For years, my Sundays followed the same simple routine, and I never once questioned it. I thought I was just helping an old neighbor, but I had no idea how … <\/p>\n","protected":false},"author":1,"featured_media":5717,"comment_status":"open","ping_status":"open","sticky":false,"template":"","format":"standard","meta":{"footnotes":""},"categories":[1],"tags":[],"class_list":["post-5716","post","type-post","status-publish","format-standard","has-post-thumbnail","hentry","category-reddit-story"],"_links":{"self":[{"href":"https:\/\/redditlovers.live\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/posts\/5716","targetHints":{"allow":["GET"]}}],"collection":[{"href":"https:\/\/redditlovers.live\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/posts"}],"about":[{"href":"https:\/\/redditlovers.live\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/types\/post"}],"author":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/redditlovers.live\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/users\/1"}],"replies":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/redditlovers.live\/index.php?rest_route=%2Fwp%2Fv2%2Fcomments&post=5716"}],"version-history":[{"count":1,"href":"https:\/\/redditlovers.live\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/posts\/5716\/revisions"}],"predecessor-version":[{"id":5718,"href":"https:\/\/redditlovers.live\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/posts\/5716\/revisions\/5718"}],"wp:featuredmedia":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/redditlovers.live\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/media\/5717"}],"wp:attachment":[{"href":"https:\/\/redditlovers.live\/index.php?rest_route=%2Fwp%2Fv2%2Fmedia&parent=5716"}],"wp:term":[{"taxonomy":"category","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/redditlovers.live\/index.php?rest_route=%2Fwp%2Fv2%2Fcategories&post=5716"},{"taxonomy":"post_tag","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/redditlovers.live\/index.php?rest_route=%2Fwp%2Fv2%2Ftags&post=5716"}],"curies":[{"name":"wp","href":"https:\/\/api.w.org\/{rel}","templated":true}]}}