The air in the courtroom smelled of damp wool, old paper, and floor wax.

Outside the tall windows, a gray Asheville rain streaked the glass, blurring the distant peaks of the Blue Ridge.

My sister, Kelsey, sat at the table across the aisle.

She wore a pale gray suit that looked too tight around her shoulders.

Beside her, her husband Trevor adjusted his gold watch and tapped his polished leather shoe against the floor.

“Your Honor, the property was always intended to remain shared family land,” Kelsey’s lawyer said.

Judge Whitaker looked down from his high bench.

He adjusted his reading glasses and looked at me.

“Ms. Lane, your sister claims the deed your grandfather left you is invalid due to a missing signature on the transfer tax form.”

I stood up, my fingers pressing into the polished oak of the defense table.

My palms were cold.

In the gallery behind Kelsey, my father, Harold, stared at the floor.

My mother, Denise, patted his hand but kept her eyes fixed on the judge.

They had not looked at me once since we entered the courthouse.

“The deed is fully signed and notarized, Your Honor,” I said.

My voice sounded steadier than I felt.

“I have lived in the Cedar Hollow cabin for seven years.”

“I have paid the taxes, maintained the roof, and cleared the mountain brush myself.”

Kelsey leaned forward, her knuckles white as she gripped the edge of her table.

“She blocked the access road,” Kelsey blurted out.

“She put up a locked iron gate and kept us from our own family heritage.”

Judge Whitaker tapped his gavel once, a sharp crack that echoed in the high-ceilinged room.

“Order, Mrs. Pike,” the judge said.

I picked up a blue manila folder from my table.

I pulled out a laminated county survey map and held it up.

“The gate is on my property, Your Honor,” I said.

“According to the 2018 county survey, I do not just own the cabin.”

“I own the entire private access road, Cedar Hollow Road, and the three adjacent acres of buffer land.”

“The deed clearly includes the sole easement rights.”