After my father died, I thought the hardest part would be walking through his house without hearing his voice. Instead, the hardest part was watching my brother Elias arrive with his wife, Sabrina, and his friend Preston, already talking about what should happen to the estate. Sabrina kept mentioning renovations, fair shares, and how much more valuable the property would become if someone “modernized” it. I said nothing. My father had left the house to me, or so I believed, but the final will had not yet been read. Then Sabrina started suggesting that Elias deserved more, that I had always been favored, and that my father might not have been thinking clearly near the end. Elias listened, grieving and confused, while Preston quietly encouraged every doubt. That evening, I went into my father’s garden to clear my head. Near the white roses he had planted years ago, I noticed something strange beneath a flat stone.

I moved the stone and found a small envelope buried underneath. Inside was a brass key and a handwritten note bearing my name. The message was only one sentence: “When they come for what they think is theirs, take this to Nadia.”