The VanLauron Inheritance

CHAPTER ONE

I allowed myself to drift for a moment, leaning back slightly in the chair, the faint hum of conversation surrounding me but not touching me. My mind returned to a summer long ago, when I was ten, and Grandpa had led me to the secret corner of the gardens behind the mansion. He had knelt on the damp earth, brushing back the curls that fell across my forehead.

"Elli," he had said, voice gentle, almost conspiratorial, "look closely. Not everything wants to be seen at first glance. The world hides its beauty, sometimes in shadows, sometimes in quiet corners."

I remembered the soil beneath my nails, the faint tang of basil and mint, the warm sun on my shoulders, and his hand guiding mine to a small patch of blooms hidden behind the larger flowers. "It's... pretty," I had murmured, unsure if the hidden corner could compete with the grand roses in the front garden.

He had smiled, that crooked, gravelly smile that could make the hardest lesson feel like an adventure. "It is, because it's ours. Because someone took the time to notice it."

The memory hit me like a gentle weight, and I blinked, drawing a shaky breath. My fingers traced the folds of my coat as if grounding myself in the present. The air in the room seemed colder suddenly, the polished floor more unyielding, the murmurs of the cousins more distant. I was alone, but not lonely; I could feel him there in the quiet corners, in the stillness that surrounded me.

A cousin brushed past, whispering something about the arrangements, their voice too clipped, too precise. I didn't respond, only letting my gaze sweep over the room again. The flowers leaned slightly toward the light, the candles shimmered faintly, and I felt the pulse of absence, the hollow spaces he had once filled. The family sat, their expressions carefully neutral, and I allowed myself a small, private ache, pressing my palms to my knees.

Even amidst the grandeur, the whispers, and the faint tension of relatives I barely recognized, I could hold onto the memory of him—the lessons he had planted in me, the small corners of the world he had shown me. It was fragile, easily overlooked, but it was mine. I let my breath slow, letting the quiet of the room, the scent of lilies and stone, and the lingering warmth of memory settle over me like a protective shawl.

I let my eyes drift over the congregation one more time. Everyone was seated now, the shuffle of dresses and the soft tapping of shoes on marble fading into a muted background. My cousins sat a little too straight, their hands folded neatly in their laps, their eyes sharp and calculating beneath the carefully lowered lids. Mandy's foot tapped against Steven's, almost imperceptibly, but I noticed. Olive and Olivia had their heads angled so perfectly, the tiniest mirrored movement letting me know they had already cataloged something—likely nothing of consequence, but that didn't matter. The air between them seemed almost electric, a tension I could feel against my own shoulders like static.

I shifted slightly in my seat, feeling the cool polish of the marble beneath my hands. The hush of the room pressed down, not heavy, but insistent. My heart ached in a quiet, slow rhythm that matched the weight in my chest. I missed him already. Grandpa Alden. His absence was a hollow echo in every corner of this room, in every shadow that stretched too long across the polished floor. I pressed my fingers to the edge of my seat, letting the coolness seep through my palms, grounding me.

A soft cough drew my attention. One of the cousins—John, I think—had leaned over slightly, whispering something to Steven. Their words were just beyond comprehension, but their eyes flicked toward me for the briefest moment. I kept my gaze on the flowers at the front of the room, their petals so delicate, yet leaning slightly toward the sunlight as though straining for it. I wondered if Grandpa had chosen those flowers himself, if the subtle mix of lilies and roses had a memory attached to it. He always noticed those things—the little corners of the world that most people walked past without thought.

I felt a flicker of longing, a small ache in my stomach that wasn't just about missing him. It was about the spaces he had left behind, the places in the estate that were his secrets, his corners, his moments. The locked side door from outside tugged at my memory again. I could almost feel it at the edge of my awareness, a silent whisper of something hidden. It shouldn't matter, not right now, but the pull was undeniable.

As the murmurs shifted and the officiant began, I let myself lean back slightly, resting against the chair. My mind wandered to the garden again—the quiet patch behind the fountain, where the basil grew, the small cluster of hidden blooms, the sun warming my shoulders. I could almost feel his hand brush my hair from my face again, the rough warmth of his palm against my cheek. "Notice what others won't," he'd said. I could still hear it, still feel it threading through my memory, binding me to the lessons he had given so quietly.

A cousin's whisper broke through again—Mandy this time. "Do you think she's... paying attention?" Her words, low and sharp, carried the weight of judgment and curiosity combined. I didn't turn to look. It didn't matter. I was always paying attention. I had learned from him. And I would notice everything. The small gestures, the patterns in their movements, the way they positioned themselves in relation to the flowers, the light, the doorways. Everything had meaning if you cared enough to see it.

The ceremony moved forward, a measured sequence of ritualized grief. Speeches were read, memories spoken aloud with practiced solemnity. I listened quietly, letting the words wash over me, feeling their texture against the ache in my chest. Each phrase brought a subtle sting, a reminder of what I had lost. But there was also a warmth—the memory of him alive, vibrant, guiding me through the small wonders of the world. That warmth threaded through the solemnity, a hidden flame I clung to quietly.

When the murmurs settled into the final moments, I let my gaze drift one last time across the room. Candles flickered softly, casting dancing shadows on the walls. The portraits glimmered faintly, almost as if the ancestors themselves were watching, judging, waiting. And in the corner of my vision, I felt it—the quiet pull of the side door, the subtle promise of something unseen, something that Grandpa had left behind not for the family, not for the world, but just for me.

I pressed my palms together in my lap, feeling the weight of both grief and anticipation. I would discover it. I would notice what others overlooked. And in that moment, alone with my memory of him, I knew I could. Because that was the lesson he had given me, whispered in the sun and soil and quiet spaces of the estate: that some things were worth noticing, even when the rest of the world turned away.

Isabel River