On Friday morning, I took a day off work and drove to the address listed in the will.
The road wound between tall trees draped in golden leaves, standing still and silent as if guarding secrets I was about to uncover.
When I arrived, my breath caught.
The house sat at the end of a gravel driveway, its worn brick wrapped in ivy and time. The porch had been freshly painted, bright against the weathered roof. It felt both foreign and strangely familiar.
I held the key the notary had given me.
“This is it?” I whispered.
I climbed the steps and slid the key into the lock.
It didn’t turn.
I tried again.
Nothing.
Confused, I circled around to peer through a window.
Suddenly, the front door flew open.
“Can I help you?”
