When my late father left me a house I’d never heard of, I thought it was a mistake until I found a woman living there, claiming it was hers.
What she revealed shattered everything I knew.
The rain pounded relentlessly on the rooftops as I tightened my coat and quickened my pace toward the notary’s office.
My father was gone. I couldn’t shake the thought. He’d always been my rock, but in the past few years, that rock had crumbled under the weight of debts I couldn’t even comprehend.
Finally, the house we’d lived in together was about to be repossessed, and I didn’t have the strength to fight it anymore.
“What’s left?” I wondered as I reached the office door, pausing to take a deep breath.
“Probably nothing but another reminder of how much we’ve lost.”
The hallway smelled of dust and old paper, its dim light making the walls lined with faded paintings look even more lifeless.
I was ushered into the notary’s office, where an older man motioned for me to sit.
“Let’s get started,” he said, flipping through a stack of documents.
As he read the will, I barely listened. My mind wandered, replaying moments with my dad, how he always told me everything, or so I thought.
Suddenly, the notary’s voice cut through my thoughts. “A house.”
“What?!” My head snapped up.
“I’m sorry, did you say a house?”
“Yes,” he replied, sliding a document toward me. “Not your current residence, but another property your father owned.”
I stared at the paper, the words blurring for a moment.
“Another house? He never mentioned it.
How could he hide something like this?”
My hands trembled as I picked up the documents. The address was unfamiliar.
Why didn’t he tell me? Was this his way of trying to make up for everything?
One thing was clear.
I had to see this house. It felt like the only way to uncover the truth.
***
The next day, on Friday, I decided to face the unknown. Taking a day off work, I rode a winding road lined with golden-leaved trees.
They stood tall and quiet as if they were witnesses to something I couldn’t yet understand.
When I finally arrived, the sight of the house sent a shiver through me. It looked old but not neglected. The large windows caught the light, and the freshly painted porch contrasted with the moss-covered roof that gave it an almost storybook charm.
Yet, the unease in my chest grew heavier.
“This is it,” I murmured to myself, gripping the key the notary had handed me.
The key didn’t work.
I frowned, trying again. The lock had been changed. Biting my lip, I stepped around to peer through a window, hoping to get a better look inside.
That’s when the door flew open with a force that made me jump.
“Can I help you?” A stern voice demanded.
Standing in the doorway was a woman, probably in her sixties, with sharp features and an expression that made it clear she wasn’t happy to see me.
Her eyes, though tired, held a defiant spark.
“I… uh… this is my house,” I stammered, holding up the key. “It was left to me by my late father.”
“Your house? I’ve been living here for twenty years.
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