The Curious Inheritance of Oliver Grayson

Learning to Live Anew

Dawn's golden hue bathed the old estate in warm light, a stark contrast to Oliver's unsettled mood. The final ritual at the sundial had confirmed his fears: while he no longer risked losing his adult mind, his body was locked in toddlerhood. Even the soft rustle of the diaper beneath his oversized shirt felt more permanent than it had just the day before.

He and the lawyer lingered a while in the overgrown garden, absorbing what had happened. Eventually, the chill of morning air drove them back inside. Now, in the manor's aging kitchen, Oliver settled onto a chair stacked with old cushions—his makeshift booster seat. The lawyer bustled around, heating water in a kettle that sat a bit crooked on a rusted stovetop.

"So," the lawyer began gently, pushing a steaming mug of tea toward Oliver, "I guess we should talk about where you go from here."

Oliver gazed down at his small, chubby hands wrapped around the mug. The warmth felt comforting. "It's not like I can just... show up to my old job," he said, a wry, sad smile tugging at the corners of his mouth. He could already imagine the confusion in his coworkers' eyes if they saw a toddler waddling in, claiming to be Oliver Grayson.

"No," the lawyer agreed softly. "We'll have to sort out new living arrangements, a new... identity, in some ways. For all practical purposes, the world will see you as a child."

Oliver winced at the thought. Despite his adult mind, he looked every inch a toddler, and the practicalities of surviving in that form loomed like a mountain before him. Would he need someone to watch him, to drive him anywhere? How would he handle finances? Every aspect of day-to-day life would now be complicated by his height, his limited dexterity, and the unavoidable need for diapers.

He set the tea aside, the impulse to brood flickering—but so did a sudden wave of frustration. Why can't it just be easy? a small voice in the back of his mind complained. He closed his eyes and forced himself to let the feeling pass. Childish impulses would come and go; he had to stay grounded.

"So what do we do with this place?" he asked, waving a tiny hand at the house's worn walls. "Uncle Harold's estate? All the magical nonsense he left behind?"

The lawyer pursed his lips. "We could sell it. But part of me thinks there may still be answers here—some hidden artifact or locked-away text that we haven't discovered. It's a big house with a lot of secrets."

Oliver nodded thoughtfully, the idea of simply walking away leaving him uneasy. Although the estate had brought him nothing but complications, it might yet contain clues. "At the very least," he said, "I want everything properly documented. Who knows? We might find some old letter that explains the missing piece."

They finished their tea in a muted hush, the dust motes dancing in the morning light. Finally, Oliver slid off his chair. He wobbled slightly—still unaccustomed to how short his legs were—but managed to keep his balance. The thick padding between his thighs was both a security blanket and a constant reminder that he was no longer physically independent.

"Let's check Uncle Harold's personal study again," Oliver said. "We can start sorting documents. Maybe I'll come across something we missed."

The lawyer nodded, rinsing out the mugs. "I'll be right behind you."

⸻

Back in the old study, sunshine slanted through high windows onto a desk crowded with papers. Oliver clambered onto a smaller chair, feet dangling well above the floor. The lawyer brought over a stack of boxes, each filled with disorganized letters and ledgers dating back decades. The musty odor of old parchment and leather bindings filled the air.

For the next hour, they worked quietly side by side. Oliver did his best to concentrate on each page, though he had to squint at the tiny script and be careful turning the fragile sheets. More than once, he found himself murmuring the words under his breath—childlike habits creeping in despite his adult intellect.

Between documents, the lawyer would pause to read out any interesting references: mentions of extended family members, half-finished experiments, or cryptic notes about "the Gift." So far, nothing hinted at a missing cure.

Eventually, Oliver's gaze drifted to a chipped photo frame on the desk. Inside was a faded black-and-white picture of Uncle Harold in younger days, standing beside two men Oliver didn't recognize. They looked jovial, arms around each other, a sprawling orchard in the background. A pang of curiosity hit Oliver. Who were they? Did they know about all this?

Before he could lift the frame for a closer look, the lawyer's voice broke into his thoughts. "Oliver," he said, setting aside a dusty ledger. "I know we're both focused on finding a solution, but... we also need to think about your future if the cure never surfaces."

Oliver's heart clenched at the bluntness, but he nodded, grudgingly appreciating the practical concern. "I know," he murmured. "I'll need an identity as a child, obviously. Some arrangement for daily life." He shifted, feeling the diaper rustle beneath him. The notion that he'd need it for the foreseeable future stung, but it was reality.

The lawyer hesitated. "People will assume you're an orphaned relative or something along those lines. Unless we tell them the truth, which... no one would believe."

Oliver gave a resigned shrug. "Then we say I'm a distant nephew. You become my legal guardian—at least until I figure out how to handle it myself." The words felt unreal, but the logic was unavoidable. If the world saw him as a young child, the world would expect an adult caretaker.

A heavy silence settled, the enormity of it sinking in. Oliver rubbed his eyes, momentarily weary. Yet, as he glanced around the study—the old trunk that started it all, the piles of diaries—he felt a flicker of determination. This doesn't have to be the end of the story, he thought. I can adapt, at least for now.

Just then, he felt the lawyer's hand rest gently on his shoulder. "We'll figure it out," the man said softly. "One day at a time. And who knows—maybe one day, we'll uncover the last piece of Uncle Harold's puzzle."

Oliver nodded, pushing aside the subtle annoyance that whispered it wasn't fair. He was an adult. He shouldn't need a guardian. But the practical truth remained: he was a toddler in every physical sense. If he wanted any semblance of independence, he'd have to build it from the ground up.

"All right," Oliver said, tapping the next pile of documents. "Then let's keep going. I won't give up on a cure, but if it doesn't appear, I'll—" He paused, swallowing back an unexpected wave of childish fear and frustration. Then he squared his small shoulders. "I'll handle it. This is my life now."

With a quiet resolve, they turned back to the mound of papers, each bent on their shared goal. The estate still held secrets, and if Oliver was truly trapped in toddler form, he intended to make the best of it—adult mind, child's body, and all.