“Elena didn’t want you to have Brindlewood,” I said.

He stared at me, his brow furrowing in deep confusion.

“Brindlewood was a minor holding,” he said. “An old apartment block my father bought decades ago.”

“It wasn’t minor to her,” I said. “She loved those tenants, and she loved me.”

I reached into my pocket and pulled out my old leather wallet, the one I had kept for over a decade.

Inside, behind a cracked plastic window, was a folded piece of paper, yellowed and worn at the edges.

I unfolded it with trembling fingers and held it out toward him.

“She didn’t want the Graves family trust to demolish it,” I said.

Nathaniel took the paper from my hand, his fingers brushing mine.

He stared at the handwriting, his face losing what little color it had.

“This is Elena’s writing,” he whispered, his voice cracking.

“It’s her will,” I said, my voice hardening as the fear turned into resolve. “The real one.”

“She wrote it three weeks before the accident,” I added.

“She left the entire Brindlewood property to you,” he read aloud, his eyes scanning the faded ink.