That night, I sat in the hostel’s common room, the lights dim, the hum of the refrigerator a low drone. I thought of the day at the funeral, his whisper, the way his eyes had lingered on the empty house. I realized the house was never truly his; it was a symbol of the life I had built for Laura, a life he had tried to erase.
On the seventh day, as the sun rose over the city, casting a golden hue over the wet streets, my phone buzzed. It was an unknown number again.
“Sir… you own eighty‑four percent of the company.”
The voice on the other end was calm, almost clinical. It was a lawyer from the firm, his tone measured, his words precise. He read the numbers, the percentages, the legal implications. I felt the world tilt, the floor beneath me shifting like a loose board.
