I rented my apartment to Hans and Greta, a sweet elderly couple with warm smiles and charming accents, and everything seemed perfect. But when they moved out, I found myself caught up in a mystery that would shake my trust and lead to an unbelievable revelation.
From the start, Hans and Greta were the picture of kindness. In their late seventies, they had gentle manners and smiles that could warm anyone’s heart. Hans sported a neat silver mustache that twitched when he laughed, while Greta had a nurturing, motherly presence. They spoke with an accent that I couldn’t quite place—something European and old-fashioned.
“I hope this apartment will be just right for you,” I said when I gave them the tour.
“It’s perfect,” Greta responded with a smile. “Just like home.”
They moved in without a hitch, and for the entire year they were there, there were no issues. Rent was always paid on time, the apartment was always spotless, and they even left thoughtful thank-you notes. They often invited me in for tea, sharing stories about their past adventures. It felt like a dream scenario.
“Thank you for letting us stay here, Mark,” Hans said one afternoon. “You’ve been a wonderful landlord.”
“You two have been the best tenants,” I replied, sipping the chamomile tea Greta had made. It was fragrant and soothing.
“Do you remember when we got lost in the Black Forest?” Greta asked, her eyes sparkling with mischief.
“Oh yes, that was quite the adventure!” Hans chuckled. “We thought we could navigate without a map.”
“We ended up spending the night in a shepherd’s hut,” Greta added, shaking her head with a smile.
But as their lease drew to a close, something odd began happening. Hans and Greta, usually so calm and composed, seemed to be in a frantic rush to move out. They were packing up in a hurry, and when I asked if everything was okay, they reassured me with their usual warm smiles.
“Just some family matters,” Greta explained. “Nothing to worry about.”
“Are you sure? You both seem a bit frantic,” I said, concerned.
“It’s all good, Mark,” Hans reassured me, patting my shoulder. “We’ll miss this place.”
The day they moved out, they handed me the keys with an extra firm handshake and apologized for their sudden departure. I wished them well, feeling a bit sad to see them go.
“Thank you for everything, Mark. We hope to see you again someday,” Greta said, giving me a gentle hug.
“Take care,” I replied, waving as they left.
The next day, I went to inspect the apartment, expecting it to be as pristine as always. But when I opened the door, I was shocked. The hardwood floors were completely gone, leaving only bare concrete. I stood frozen, unable to process what I was seeing.
“Where’s the floor?” I muttered, pacing around in disbelief.
I quickly snapped a photo and sent it to them, asking, “What happened to the floor?”
A few minutes later, I received a response from Hans.
“Oh dear, we are so sorry for the confusion! In the Netherlands, it’s a tradition to take the floor with you when you move out. We thought it was the same here. We were in such a rush because our granddaughter had just had a baby, and we didn’t have time to explain. We hope this hasn’t caused too much trouble. Please let us make it up to you. Come visit us in the Netherlands, and we’ll show you our beautiful country. With love, Hans and Greta.”
I read the message twice, slowly processing it. It was a strange tradition, but it did explain their sudden departure. They hadn’t meant any harm—they had simply followed a custom from their country.
I replied, “I appreciate the explanation. I’ll need to replace the floor, but no hard feelings. Maybe I’ll visit you someday. Best wishes to your family.”
Despite the explanation, something still didn’t sit right. A tradition to take the floor? I decided to investigate. I reached out to a private investigator friend, who agreed to look into it.
A week later, he called me with shocking news.
“Mark, you won’t believe this. Hans and Greta aren’t who they claimed to be. They’re part of a scam targeting landlords, stealing valuable items and leaving behind the illusion of an innocent mistake. Those floorboards? They’re worth a small fortune.”
“What? How could they do this? I checked their credentials thoroughly—everything seemed above board,” I replied.
“They’re professionals,” my friend said. “They move from city to city, scamming landlords by taking high-value items like floorboards, which can be sold for a lot of money.”
I couldn’t believe it. “But they seemed so genuine, so kind.”
“That’s how they operate,” he said. “They gain your trust, then exploit it.”
“They’re selling the floorboards at a high-end antique market,” he continued. “We’re setting up a sting to catch them.”
I agreed to help, and soon we had a plan in place. My friend, posing as a buyer, approached Hans and Greta at the market, where they were selling various antique items, including my floorboards.
“They look exquisite,” my friend said, inspecting the floorboards.
“Ah, yes, fine Dutch craftsmanship,” Hans replied, grinning. “Very rare, very valuable.”
“How much are you asking?” my friend inquired.
“Special price for you,” Hans said, naming a price that made my friend’s eyes widen.
Just as the deal was about to go through, police swooped in and arrested them for theft and fraud. I watched from a distance, feeling a mix of satisfaction and sadness. How could I have misjudged them so completely?
The stolen floorboards were recovered, and it turned out they were worth a small fortune. In the following weeks, I replaced the floor, but the experience left a lasting impression. I often thought about Hans and Greta—about their fabricated tradition and their seemingly unwavering kindness.
A month later, I received a letter from the real Hans and Greta in the Netherlands. They had been victims of identity theft and explained that imposters had used their names to scam me. Interpol had contacted them about the crime, and they invited me to visit the Netherlands to meet them in person.
“Dear Mark, we are so sorry for what happened. We hope you can find it in your heart to visit us and see the real Netherlands. With love, Hans and Greta.”
I sat back, the letter in my hands, reflecting on the experience. Trust is fragile, I thought, but it can be powerful when placed in the right hands. Maybe one day I would visit the real Hans and Greta and restore my faith in trust and humanity.
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