The stifling city air felt particularly heavy to Emily the day the letter arrived. The envelope, slightly yellowed and carrying a faint scent of salt and something nostalgically familiar, trembled in her hands as she opened it. The neat, old-fashioned handwriting revealed that her grandmother, Margaret, had left her the seaside housethe very one where she had spent her happiest childhood summers in Cornwall.
Emilys heart swelled with a bittersweet mix of joy and sorrow. She could almost feel the warm sand beneath her feet, hear the crash of waves, and recall her grandmothers gentle embrace at the door.
She called James at once. His voice through the phone sounded distant, slightly irritated, as if shed interrupted something far more important.
“James, I have to go,” she said firmly, steeling herself for his reaction. “Gran left a will. Shes given me the house by the sea.”
A pause. Then his dry, businesslike tone cut in. “That old place? Isnt it practically falling apart?”
“Its not falling apart!” Emily snapped. “Its historic, full of memories. I spent every summer there as a child. Gran adored meshed take me to the shore, hand in hand. Later, Id run off with the local kids, spending whole days swimming and laughing till sunset.”
“How long will you be gone?” he interrupted, dragging her back to the oppressive city.
“I dont know yet, but certainly longer than a weekend,” she sighed. “I need to sort things out. I havent been there since uni, and that was years ago. Im taking leave. And you” She hesitated, hoping. “You could join me later. Its only a few hours drive. Take a couple of days off, and we could relax together.”
“Never been one for the seaside,” he muttered. “Fine, Ill see if work allows.”
That phrase lingered, heavy and hollow. Hed “see,” as he always did, and inevitably stay behind, buried in work that mattered more than she ever did.
Three days later, Emily packed her bags, her heart fluttering with anticipationand a quiet hope that James might change his mind, drive her to the station, kiss her goodbye, promise to follow. Instead, three hours before her train, his call came.
“Emily, sorry, cant take you. Work emergency. Youll manage a cab, wont you?” His voice held a false note.
“Of course,” she replied, swallowing the lump in her throat.
She hailed a taxi, staring blankly out the window as the city blurred past. Thenher heart lurched. At a red light stood his car. And there he was, helping a slender woman in a sundress out of the passenger seat, their smiles intimate as they strolled into a cosy café.
“Stop here!” Emily blurted, voice shaking. She leapt out, fury and betrayal surging through her. Inside the café, they sat close, fingers nearly touching over a shared menu.
“Hello,” she said icily. “I see youre *very* busy. Just one thinggoodbye. Dont call me again.”
She turned and left, deaf to his shouts. The taxi carried her away, her fists clenched tight.
The journeyfirst the train, then another cab down winding country roadswas a haze of anger. By the time she reached the rusted iron gates, overgrown with ivy, the drivers gruff “Were here” barely registered.
Alone, she unlocked the gate with an antique key. The padlock clicked open like a gunshot heralding a new life.
The garden was wild, Grans flowerbeds overtaken by hardy blooms defying neglect. The oak front door groaned as she pushed it open. Inside, silence. The grand hall, with its stained-glass window casting jeweled light on the worn floorboards, was exactly as she remembered.
“Its all mine now,” she whispered. “Thank you, Gran.”
She wandered room by room, dust thick on furniture older than her grandparents. The porcelain in the sideboarddelicate, pricelessstill bore its gilded “1890” mark. A sudden crash upstairs startled her.
In Grans bedroom, the four-poster bed stood regal beneath a canopy of faded silk. She sank onto it, stirring dust, when the doorbell rang.
On the step stood Mrs. Whitmore, her neighbourmother of her childhood friend Lucy.
“Emily, dear! Recognise me?”
“Mrs. Whitmore! How did you?”
“Saw the gate open. Your gran asked me to keep an eye on things. Lucys married and moved to Bristol, but my son Williams back home. Needs anything, just ask.”
William. The older brother whod seemed so untouchable.
The next morning, she enlisted his help cleaning the massive crystal chandelier. He arrived tall, broad-shouldered, his laugh warm.
“Remember when you and Lucy used to nick apples from our garden?” he teased.
They worked side by side, the chandelier gleaming under their care. By afternoon, the house sparkled.
“Fancy a bite?” William asked. “Theres a decent pub in the village.”
Over fish and chips, he regaled her with stories. Later, they walked along the shore, the sea warm as bathwater.
That night, as she drifted off, the phone rang. James.
“Emily! Miss you. Send the addressIll come down.”
Her mind flashed to Williams honest smile, to Jamess betrayal. Grans voice echoed in her memory: *Make the right choice.*
“Dont bother,” she said coolly. “Were done.”
She hung up, realising Gran hadnt meant a choice between placesbut between the past and a future bright with possibility.
Months later, Emily stood on the terrace, Williams hand on her waist, the moon painting the sea silver. The house hummed with life, soon to echo with a babys laughter.
“Thank you, Gran,” she whispered.
Inside, a crystal droplet chimed softly, as if in reply.
