For nine years, I rented a basement apartment from an elderly man named Frank Whitaker.<\/p>\n
The apartment wasn’t fancy. The ceilings were low, the pipes rattled in winter, and one corner of the kitchen floor always creaked. But the rent was affordable, the neighborhood was quiet, and Frank treated me like family.<\/p>\n
I was thirty-four when I moved in. I had just gone through a painful divorce, was struggling to rebuild my finances, and needed somewhere I could start over without drowning in bills.<\/p>\n
Frank had advertised the apartment on a handwritten sign outside his house.<\/p>\n
When I arrived for the viewing, he opened the door wearing faded jeans, suspenders, and a baseball cap that looked older than I was.<\/p>\n
“You the person who called about the basement?” he asked.<\/p>\n
“Yes, sir.”<\/p>\n
He showed me the apartment, then asked whether I liked fishing.<\/p>\n
I laughed. “I’ve never been fishing in my life.”<\/p>\n
“Good,” he said. “Then you won’t steal my best spots.”<\/p>\n
That was my first glimpse of his humor.<\/p>\n
He rented me the apartment that afternoon.<\/p>\n
For the next nine years, Frank became a steady presence in my life. He was seventy-eight when I met him, a retired mechanic with weathered hands, a stubborn streak, and a habit of making too much coffee.<\/p>\n
Every morning, he sat on his back porch with a mug in one hand and the newspaper in the other.<\/p>\n
If I left for work before sunrise, he waved.<\/p>\n
If I came home late, he left the porch light on.<\/p>\n
And if he noticed I hadn’t eaten properly, he’d knock on my basement door holding a plate covered in aluminum foil.<\/p>\n
“Made too much,” he’d say.<\/p>\n
He always made too much.<\/p>\n
Frank had one son, Gregory.<\/p>\n
I met Gregory three times in nine years.<\/p>\n
The first time, he arrived in a shiny black SUV, walked through the front door without knocking, and asked his father whether he had updated his will.<\/p>\n
The second time, he called Frank from the driveway because he didn’t want to get out of the car in the rain.<\/p>\n
The third time, he came on Christmas Eve.<\/p>\n
I remember that visit because Frank had spent the entire afternoon preparing a roast, potatoes, and apple pie. He’d bought a bottle of wine and put on a clean shirt.<\/p>\n
Gregory stayed for seventeen minutes.<\/p>\n
Before leaving, he stood beside the kitchen counter and asked, “So, Dad, have you decided what you’re doing with the house?”<\/p>\n
Frank stared at him.<\/p>\n
“I’ve decided to enjoy Christmas dinner.”<\/p>\n
Gregory rolled his eyes.<\/p>\n
“I’m just trying to plan ahead.”<\/p>\n
“Then plan ahead for something while I’m still alive.”<\/p>\n
Gregory left without eating dessert.<\/p>\n
That evening, I found Frank sitting on the back porch long after the dishes had been washed.<\/p>\n
He looked older than usual.<\/p>\n
“Does your son live far away?” I asked.<\/p>\n
“Forty minutes.”<\/p>\n
I waited.<\/p>\n
“He calls twice a year,” Frank continued. “Usually around my birthday and Christmas. Sometimes he remembers both. Sometimes he forgets one.”<\/p>\n
He took a slow sip of coffee.<\/p>\n
“He’s just waiting for me to die.”<\/p>\n
I didn’t know what to say.<\/p>\n
I wanted to tell him that Gregory might change, that family relationships could be complicated, that perhaps there was still hope.<\/p>\n
But I had watched nine years of phone calls that began with questions about property and ended before Frank could finish telling a story about his day.<\/p>\n
So I sat beside him.<\/p>\n
Sometimes the kindest thing you can do for someone is not to offer a comforting lie.<\/p>\n
It’s to stay.<\/p>\n
As the years passed, Frank’s health declined. His knees became unreliable, his hands trembled occasionally, and he stopped driving at night.<\/p>\n
I helped him carry groceries, drove him to appointments when he needed it, and checked on him after bad storms.<\/p>\n
He always insisted on paying me back for anything I bought.<\/p>\n
“You don’t owe me anything,” I’d tell him.<\/p>\n
“That’s not the point,” he’d answer. “I want things fair.”<\/p>\n
That was Frank. Even when he was sick, he cared about fairness.<\/p>\n
One afternoon, while we sat in his kitchen, he asked me something unexpected.<\/p>\n
“If I ever needed someone to handle a few things for me, would you help?”<\/p>\n
“Of course.”<\/p>\n
He nodded, but didn’t explain.<\/p>\n
Instead, he asked whether I knew a good place to buy fishing line.<\/p>\n
I thought nothing of the conversation.<\/p>\n
I wish now that I’d asked more questions.<\/p>\n
Frank died on a rainy Tuesday morning in October.<\/p>\n
He had gone to bed the previous evening and never woke up.<\/p>\n
A neighbor called me after discovering that Frank hadn’t collected his newspaper. I went upstairs and found the house quiet in a way I’d never experienced before.<\/p>\n
The paramedics arrived. Then the police. Then Gregory.<\/p>\n
Gregory came wearing a dark coat and expensive shoes that were completely inappropriate for the muddy driveway.<\/p>\n
He barely looked at me.<\/p>\n
“You’re the tenant,” he said.<\/p>\n
“I’ve lived here nine years.”<\/p>\n
“Yes. I know who you are.”<\/p>\n
He looked past me into the house.<\/p>\n
“Has anyone touched anything?”<\/p>\n
I stared at him.<\/p>\n
“Frank just died.”<\/p>\n
“And I need to know whether anything has been removed.”<\/p>\n
I remember feeling a sudden, cold anger.<\/p>\n
“Nothing has been removed.”<\/p>\n
He nodded as though I had passed an inspection.<\/p>\n
Frank’s funeral took place four days later.<\/p>\n
I sat near the back of the church, surrounded by a handful of neighbors, two former coworkers, and people from the local fishing club.<\/p>\n
Gregory sat in the front row.<\/p>\n
He looked at his phone twice during the service.<\/p>\n
Afterward, several people approached me to share stories about Frank. One man told me Frank had once spent an entire night searching for a stranger’s lost dog. A woman remembered him repairing her husband’s old car without charging labor because they were struggling financially.<\/p>\n
Gregory stood near the exit, accepting condolences with the expression of someone waiting for a delayed flight.<\/p>\n
The morning after the funeral, he knocked on my basement door.<\/p>\n
He held a white envelope.<\/p>\n
“This is your notice to vacate,” he said.<\/p>\n
I looked at the envelope without taking it.<\/p>\n
“What?”<\/p>\n
“You heard me. Thirty days. The house is part of my father’s estate, and I intend to sell it.”<\/p>\n
I felt as though the floor had shifted beneath me.<\/p>\n
“Gregory, I’ve lived here for nine years. Your father and I had an arrangement.”<\/p>\n
“An arrangement with my father. He’s gone.”<\/p>\n
He extended the envelope again.<\/p>\n
I took it.<\/p>\n
“Please don’t touch anything belonging to the estate,” he added. “Everything upstairs is now my responsibility.”<\/p>\n
I looked at him.<\/p>\n
“Frank was my friend.”<\/p>\n
Gregory’s face hardened.<\/p>\n
“He was my father.”<\/p>\n
Then he walked away.<\/p>\n
I stood in the hallway holding the notice, listening to his footsteps move across the floor above me.<\/p>\n
That afternoon, while sorting through a few belongings Frank had left in the basement, I found his old tackle box on a shelf beside the water heater.<\/p>\n
It was a battered green metal box with rust around the hinges. The handle was wrapped in black electrical tape, and a faded sticker on the lid showed a fish jumping out of the water.<\/p>\n
Frank had owned it for as long as I’d known him.<\/p>\n
He used to take it out on Saturday mornings, even during the years when his knees made fishing difficult. Sometimes he’d sit at the kitchen table cleaning hooks or sorting old lures.<\/p>\n
I carried it upstairs and placed it on the dining room table.<\/p>\n
Gregory appeared in the doorway.<\/p>\n
“What’s that?”<\/p>\n
“Frank’s tackle box.”<\/p>\n
He glanced at it and made a face.<\/p>\n
“Keep the fishing junk. I don’t want it.”<\/p>\n
Then he laughed.<\/p>\n
“Maybe you’ll catch something useful with it.”<\/p>\n
He walked away.<\/p>\n
I should have opened it that day.<\/p>\n
But I was overwhelmed. I had a deadline to meet, an apartment to find, and nine years of memories to pack into boxes.<\/p>\n
I placed the tackle box on a shelf in my basement apartment and concentrated on moving forward.<\/p>\n
Within thirty days, I had found a small rental across town. I packed my books, my clothes, my kitchen supplies, and the few pieces of furniture I owned.<\/p>\n
On my last evening in Frank’s house, I walked upstairs and stood in the kitchen.<\/p>\n
I could almost hear him asking whether I’d eaten.<\/p>\n
I touched the counter where he’d once taught me how to sharpen a kitchen knife.<\/p>\n
“Thank you,” I whispered.<\/p>\n
Then I left.<\/p>\n
Gregory sold the house several months later.<\/p>\n
I heard through the neighborhood that he had renovated the kitchen, replaced the porch, and listed the property for a substantial profit.<\/p>\n
He never contacted me again.<\/p>\n
I tried to move on.<\/p>\n
I found a better job, saved what I could, and rented a modest apartment with windows that faced a small courtyard.<\/p>\n
But I kept Frank’s tackle box.<\/p>\n
For nearly a year, it sat unopened in the bottom of my closet.<\/p>\n
I didn’t know why I held on to it. I wasn’t a fisherman, and the box smelled faintly of old metal, dried bait, and lake water.<\/p>\n
Still, every time I considered throwing it away, I remembered Frank sitting on his porch.<\/p>\n
So I kept it.<\/p>\n
Then, one Saturday morning, almost eleven months after his death, I finally opened it.<\/p>\n
I was cleaning out my closet when the box slipped off the shelf and landed on the floor.<\/p>\n
The lid popped open.<\/p>\n
Inside were rows of hooks, bobbers, sinkers, rusted pliers, and plastic trays filled with old lures.<\/p>\n
I started sorting through the contents, separating the useful items from the broken ones.<\/p>\n
Then I noticed something strange.<\/p>\n
The foam lining beneath the lowest tray didn’t sit flat.<\/p>\n
One corner was raised slightly, as though something had been placed underneath it.<\/p>\n
I pressed the foam with my thumb.<\/p>\n
It moved.<\/p>\n
I removed the trays and lifted the lining carefully.<\/p>\n
Beneath it was a thin wooden panel, cut to fit the bottom of the box.<\/p>\n
There was a tiny brass latch hidden near the hinge.<\/p>\n
My hands suddenly felt cold.<\/p>\n
I opened it.<\/p>\n
Inside was a sealed envelope, a small flash drive, a key attached to a numbered metal tag, and a folded sheet of paper with my name written across the front.<\/p>\n
Not Gregory’s name.<\/p>\n
Mine.<\/p>\n
My full name.<\/p>\n
I sat on the floor for several minutes, staring at the envelope.<\/p>\n
Frank had hidden something in this box.<\/p>\n
And he had written my name on it.<\/p>\n
I opened the letter first.<\/p>\n
The handwriting was unmistakably his.<\/p>\n
Dear Daniel,<\/p>\n
If you’re reading this, then I’ve probably been gone for a while. I hope you’ve found a place to live where the windows don’t rattle every time the wind changes.<\/p>\n
I laughed once, unexpectedly, then covered my mouth.<\/p>\n
Even in a letter written before his death, Frank was thinking about my apartment.<\/p>\n
I continued.<\/p>\n
I want you to know something before you open anything else. You helped me because you cared about me, not because you expected something in return. I noticed that. I never forgot it.<\/p>\n
My eyes blurred.<\/p>\n
My son has spent years asking what he will inherit. He rarely asks how I’m doing. I cannot change the kind of relationship he has chosen to have with me, but I can decide what I do with what I’ve earned.<\/p>\n
I stopped reading.<\/p>\n
My heart was beating so hard that I could hear it in my ears.<\/p>\n
The letter continued.<\/p>\n
The papers in this box concern the house, the property behind it, and a decision I made after receiving advice from an attorney. I have arranged for these documents to be reviewed by someone who understands the law. Do not assume that a letter from me changes ownership or gives you rights by itself. Let the documents speak, and let a lawyer confirm what is valid.<\/p>\n
Then came the line that made me put the letter down.<\/p>\n
Gregory was never meant to find this box because I did not want him destroying or hiding the information before it could be properly reviewed.<\/p>\n
I stared at the words.<\/p>\n
Frank had anticipated that his son might try to control what happened after his death.<\/p>\n
But what information could he have hidden?<\/p>\n
I unfolded the final page.<\/p>\n
You once told me that you didn’t know what family was supposed to feel like after your divorce. I told you that family was the people who showed up.<\/p>\n
You showed up for me.<\/p>\n
Now let me show up for you, one last time.<\/p>\n
Frank.<\/p>\n
I sat on the floor and cried.<\/p>\n
Not because I knew what the box contained, but because the letter reminded me of something I had been trying to accept since the day Frank died.<\/p>\n
I hadn’t lost a landlord.<\/p>\n
I had lost a friend who had made an ordinary apartment feel like home.<\/p>\n
After I composed myself, I examined the remaining items.<\/p>\n
The key had a small tag marked with a number and the name of a local bank.<\/p>\n
The flash drive was labeled with a date from two years earlier.<\/p>\n
The folded document was a copy of a letter addressed to an attorney named Margaret Ellis.<\/p>\n
It referenced a property survey, a trust, and a set of instructions that were supposed to be reviewed upon Frank’s death.<\/p>\n
I didn’t understand all the legal language, but I recognized enough to know that this was not simply a sentimental keepsake.<\/p>\n
It was a collection of records Frank had deliberately preserved.<\/p>\n
The following Monday, I searched for Margaret Ellis.<\/p>\n
Her office was still operating in the same town.<\/p>\n
I called and explained who I was. I told her I’d found Frank’s letter and the documents he had left behind.<\/p>\n
There was a long silence.<\/p>\n
Then she said, “Can you come in tomorrow morning?”<\/p>\n
I arrived fifteen minutes early.<\/p>\n
Margaret was in her sixties, with silver hair, a calm voice, and a desk covered in neatly stacked files.<\/p>\n
She read Frank’s letter first.<\/p>\n
Then she examined the key tag, the document, and the flash drive.<\/p>\n
When she reached the final page of the document, she removed her glasses.<\/p>\n
“Mr. Whitaker was a very careful man,” she said.<\/p>\n
“What did he leave me?”<\/p>\n
She didn’t answer immediately.<\/p>\n
Instead, she asked whether Gregory had given me an eviction notice.<\/p>\n
I nodded.<\/p>\n
“Did he ever tell you about the parcel of land behind the house?”<\/p>\n
I frowned.<\/p>\n
“What parcel?”<\/p>\n
Margaret opened a large folder.<\/p>\n
She showed me an old survey map of Frank’s property. The house sat near the front of a surprisingly deep lot. Behind it, beyond the garden and a row of trees, was a separate section of land that had once been used as a workshop and storage yard.<\/p>\n
I had lived in the basement for nine years and had never realized that the rear parcel had a separate legal designation.<\/p>\n
Margaret explained that Frank had purchased that section decades earlier, when the area was mostly undeveloped. Over the years, the surrounding neighborhood had grown. The parcel had become valuable because of its location and its potential for future development.<\/p>\n
The house and the rear parcel had different records.<\/p>\n
And Frank had spent the last few years making sure his estate documents accurately reflected that distinction.<\/p>\n
“Gregory knew about the house,” Margaret said. “But he may not have understood the full history of the rear parcel or the arrangements his father made concerning it.”<\/p>\n
I stared at her.<\/p>\n
“Are you saying Frank left the land to me?”<\/p>\n
“I’m saying we need to review the original documents and confirm the current title. I won’t promise you an outcome before that work is done.”<\/p>\n
She inserted the flash drive into a computer that wasn’t connected to the office network.<\/p>\n
It contained scanned records, dated notes, photographs of the land, and a recorded message from Frank.<\/p>\n
Margaret played the recording.<\/p>\n
Frank appeared on the screen, sitting in his kitchen with his familiar baseball cap resting on the table.<\/p>\n
“If you’re watching this, then I’ve passed on,” he said. “I hope Daniel found the box, because I don’t trust the right people to always look in the right places.”<\/p>\n
He gave a small smile.<\/p>\n
“I bought that rear parcel when nobody else wanted it. I kept it because I thought one day it might be useful. When Daniel moved in, I saw how he treated people who couldn’t do anything for him. He never asked me for money. He never asked what I’d leave behind. He simply showed up.”<\/p>\n
Frank paused to collect his thoughts.<\/p>\n
“I’ve arranged for the property records and my estate instructions to be reviewed by Margaret. I want the rear parcel to support a housing assistance fund for people who need a fresh start. Daniel is the person I’ve nominated to help oversee the project, provided the legal arrangements are confirmed and he’s willing to do it.”<\/p>\n
I covered my mouth.<\/p>\n
Frank continued.<\/p>\n
“I know my son will be angry if he discovers that I made decisions he didn’t control. But an inheritance isn’t a reward for waiting. It’s a responsibility, and I have the right to decide what I want my remaining property to support.”<\/p>\n
The recording ended.<\/p>\n
For a long time, neither Margaret nor I spoke.<\/p>\n
Finally, I whispered, “He wanted to help people like me.”<\/p>\n
Margaret nodded.<\/p>\n
“He wanted to help people who needed somewhere to rebuild their lives. You were part of the reason he thought about it that way.”<\/p>\n
I looked at the documents again.<\/p>\n
“What happens now?”<\/p>\n
“Now we verify everything. We’ll obtain the relevant land records, confirm the status of the trust and estate documents, and determine whether any necessary filings were completed. If the records support what Frank intended, we’ll proceed through the proper legal channels.”<\/p>\n
I nodded.<\/p>\n
For the first time in almost a year, I felt something other than grief.<\/p>\n
I felt hope.<\/p>\n
But I also felt afraid.<\/p>\n
Because Gregory had already sold the house.<\/p>\n
If the rear parcel had been handled incorrectly, or if the property records didn’t reflect Frank’s intentions, this could become a complicated legal dispute.<\/p>\n
Margaret warned me not to contact Gregory or make any public claims until the documents had been reviewed.<\/p>\n
I followed her advice.<\/p>\n
Over the next several weeks, we examined the records.<\/p>\n
The original trust documents were located in the bank’s secure storage. The relevant land records confirmed that the rear parcel had been separately described and had not been included in the sale of the house.<\/p>\n
Frank had retained ownership of that parcel during his lifetime and had completed the required estate planning steps to place it into a charitable trust, subject to the final administrative procedures after his death.<\/p>\n
The trust named a local housing nonprofit as its primary beneficiary.<\/p>\n
I was nominated to serve as a volunteer adviser, not as the personal owner of the land.<\/p>\n
That distinction mattered.<\/p>\n
Frank hadn’t secretly left me a fortune.<\/p>\n
He had left me something far more meaningful: the chance to help carry out a plan that could give other people the kind of second chance he had once given me.<\/p>\n
The legal review also revealed that Gregory had received a copy of the estate inventory but had apparently not understood that the rear parcel was separate from the house. The sale of the house had not transferred ownership of the parcel.<\/p>\n
There was no evidence that Gregory had stolen the land or forged any documents. He had simply focused on the property he expected to inherit without fully investigating the rest.<\/p>\n
When Margaret finally contacted him through the appropriate legal channels, his reaction was immediate.<\/p>\n
He called me that evening.<\/p>\n
“What did you do?” he demanded.<\/p>\n
I was standing in my kitchen when his name appeared on my phone.<\/p>\n
“Hello, Gregory.”<\/p>\n
“Don’t play games with me. I hear you’re trying to claim my father’s land.”<\/p>\n
“I’m not claiming it. Frank’s estate documents are being reviewed by his attorney.”<\/p>\n
“He was my father!”<\/p>\n
“Yes,” I said. “He was.”<\/p>\n
“He wouldn’t leave something like that to a stranger.”<\/p>\n
I looked at Frank’s letter, which I had placed in a frame beside my bookshelf.<\/p>\n
“He didn’t leave it to me personally. He created a plan for the land to help people who need housing support.”<\/p>\n
Gregory scoffed.<\/p>\n
“And you just happened to find the documents?”<\/p>\n
“They were in the tackle box you gave me.”<\/p>\n
Silence.<\/p>\n
Then he said, “I gave you that box because it was garbage.”<\/p>\n
“I know.”<\/p>\n
He hung up.<\/p>\n
I never heard from him again.<\/p>\n
Months later, the housing nonprofit completed the legal and administrative steps necessary to begin developing a small transitional housing program on the rear parcel.<\/p>\n
The project wasn’t extravagant. It included a handful of modest apartments, a shared community room, and access to employment and housing counseling.<\/p>\n
Frank had insisted that the plan be financially sustainable and professionally managed. He wanted people to receive more than a temporary roof; he wanted them to have a realistic path toward independent living.<\/p>\n
The nonprofit called the project Frank’s Second Start.<\/p>\n
I volunteered to help with the legal paperwork and fundraising. I wasn’t paid for the work, and I had no ownership interest in the land. I simply wanted to make sure Frank’s intentions were honored.<\/p>\n
At the opening ceremony, a small group of neighbors gathered beside a new wooden sign.<\/p>\n
I stood quietly near the back.<\/p>\n
A woman from the nonprofit spoke about the importance of stable housing. She described how a safe place to live could give someone enough breathing room to find a job, recover from a crisis, or rebuild after a relationship ended.<\/p>\n
Then she invited me to say a few words.<\/p>\n
I hadn’t prepared a speech.<\/p>\n
I looked at the people gathered around me and thought about the man who had rented me a basement apartment when I had nowhere else to go.<\/p>\n
“My name is Daniel,” I began. “For nine years, I lived in Frank Whitaker’s house. He was my landlord, but he became much more than that.”<\/p>\n
I paused.<\/p>\n
“He never made me feel ashamed of needing help. He never treated my difficult years as proof that I was a failure. He gave me a place to start again, and he did it without asking what he would get in return.”<\/p>\n
I glanced at the sign.<\/p>\n
“This project exists because Frank believed that what we leave behind should reflect how we treated people while we were here.”<\/p>\n
My voice cracked.<\/p>\n
“I hope we can honor him by making sure the people who come through these doors feel the same thing I felt when I first walked into his house.”<\/p>\n
I stepped away from the microphone.<\/p>\n
After the ceremony, I returned home and opened the tackle box one last time.<\/p>\n
The hidden compartment was empty now, but I had kept the letter and made a careful copy of the documents for my own records.<\/p>\n
I ran my fingers over the worn metal lid.<\/p>\n
For nearly a year, I had carried that box from one apartment to another without knowing what it contained.<\/p>\n
Gregory had tossed it aside because he saw nothing valuable inside.<\/p>\n
Frank had hidden it because he understood that some things are worth protecting until the right person is ready to find them.<\/p>\n
The truth was, the tackle box had never been about money.<\/p>\n
It was about a man who had watched his son treat inheritance as an entitlement, while quietly planning to use what he owned to help people he might never meet.<\/p>\n
It was about a home that had once rescued me from a difficult chapter of my life and would now offer that same possibility to others.<\/p>\n
And it was about the difference between the people who ask what they’ll receive when someone dies and the people who ask what they can do while someone is still alive.<\/p>\n
Gregory had inherited the house he expected.<\/p>\n
But Frank’s deeper legacy had been placed somewhere his son never thought to look.<\/p>\n
Beneath a piece of foam.<\/p>\n
Inside an old tackle box.<\/p>\n
And in the heart of a man who understood that the greatest inheritance isn’t always what someone leaves you\u2014it’s what they teach you to do with the life you’ve been given.<\/p>\n
His Son Evicted Me the Day After His Funeral\u2014Then I Found What He Had Hidden in an Old Tackle Box For nine years, I rented a basement apartment from an … <\/p>\n","protected":false},"author":1,"featured_media":229582,"comment_status":"open","ping_status":"open","sticky":false,"template":"","format":"standard","meta":{"footnotes":""},"categories":[10],"tags":[],"class_list":["post-229581","post","type-post","status-publish","format-standard","has-post-thumbnail","hentry","category-honglay"],"brizy_media":[],"_links":{"self":[{"href":"https:\/\/honglay168.com\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/posts\/229581","targetHints":{"allow":["GET"]}}],"collection":[{"href":"https:\/\/honglay168.com\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/posts"}],"about":[{"href":"https:\/\/honglay168.com\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/types\/post"}],"author":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/honglay168.com\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/users\/1"}],"replies":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/honglay168.com\/index.php?rest_route=%2Fwp%2Fv2%2Fcomments&post=229581"}],"version-history":[{"count":1,"href":"https:\/\/honglay168.com\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/posts\/229581\/revisions"}],"predecessor-version":[{"id":229583,"href":"https:\/\/honglay168.com\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/posts\/229581\/revisions\/229583"}],"wp:featuredmedia":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/honglay168.com\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/media\/229582"}],"wp:attachment":[{"href":"https:\/\/honglay168.com\/index.php?rest_route=%2Fwp%2Fv2%2Fmedia&parent=229581"}],"wp:term":[{"taxonomy":"category","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/honglay168.com\/index.php?rest_route=%2Fwp%2Fv2%2Fcategories&post=229581"},{"taxonomy":"post_tag","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/honglay168.com\/index.php?rest_route=%2Fwp%2Fv2%2Ftags&post=229581"}],"curies":[{"name":"wp","href":"https:\/\/api.w.org\/{rel}","templated":true}]}}