Grief Doesn't

Chapter 1 - The Inheritance

The will had been read in a room that smelled of mothballs and stale coffee, the kind of airless place where grief is handled like paperwork. My grandfather's voice wasn't there to fill the silence, only the droning of the lawyer, his lips moving over words I barely heard. Bequeathed...sole heir...manor estate in Ciren Woods. 

I remembered nodding, because that's what you do when you're handed the weight of a house. You nod as though it's an honor, as though the walls and floors and memories don't come with ghosts attached. 

Three days later, I stood at the edge of Ciren Woods, suitcase in hand, staring at the house that was now mine. 

The Hawthorne manor rose out the trees like it had been waiting for me -- three stories of weathered stone, its steep roof pitched like folded wings. The porch sagged under its own weight, boards warped and dark with age. The windows, tall and narrow, seemed less like eyes than open mouths, black and hungry. Even in daylight, the house had a way of swallowing the light that touched it. 

The path crunched beneath my shoes as I walked closer, autumn leaves giving way like brittle bones. I paused at the gate, fingers curling around the cold iron. It should have felt familiar; I'd been here before, when I was younger. My grandfather had sat on that porch with a cigar in hand, rocking lazily as the smoke curled into the twilight air. He had waved to me, smiling with that quiet gentleness he always wore, the kind that made you believe the house was a place of safety. 

Now the porch groaned when I stepped onto it, the boards creaking like something in pain. My stomach tightened. It felt like a warning, though from whom -- or what -- I couldn't say. 

I lingered at the door, key heavy in my palm. The brass lock was cold to the touch, colder than it should have been. For a moment, I imagined turning back, leaving the house to its own silence. But Inheritance isn't a choice -- it's a weight you carry because the dead decided you should. 

The key slid in with a metallic sigh, and the door opened on a house that smelled like memory. Dust, cedar polish, and beneath it, the unmistakable tang of cigar smoke. It struck me so suddenly that my chest ached. My grandfather had been gone only a week, yet it was as though he'd only stepped outside for a moment, leaving his scent behind as proof he would return. 

The foyer yawned wide, ceiling high enough to make me feel small. A chandelier hung overhead, its crystals dull with dust. The stairs curved upward, their banister polished by generations of hands. To the left, the parlor waited -- curtains drawn back just enough to let the pale autumn sun spill across the carpet in weak, dusty shafts. 

I stepped inside, suitcase forgotten by the door. The air was still, too still, the silence pressing against my ears until I thought I could hear my own pulse. 

They say grief does strange things. That it warps the mind and reshapes memory. I told myself that was why the shadows looked deeper than they should, why the rocking chair in the corner seemed to shift slightly, as though someone had just risen from it. I told myself that was why the air carried not just the smell of cigars but the faintest impression of warmth, as though someone still lingered here, waiting. 

But grief doesn't leave the windows open. 

And when I crossed the parlor to draw the curtains, I found the latch undone, the sash tilted just wide enough to let the cold autumn air crawl in. 

My throat tightened. I could not remember leaving it that way -- nor could I remember ever opening it at all. I reached out, fingers brushing the frame. The wood was damp with evening chill, slick against my skin. Outside, the woods whispered with the dry rustle of leaves, though no wind stirred. 

I closed the window, slid the latch into place, and told myself it was nothing. Just the house settling into its bones, the drafts sneaking in the way they always had. 

Still, unease clung to me as I turned away. 

The parlor hadn't changed since I was a child. Books lined the shelves, their spines faded and cracked. The mantel still bore the photograph of my grandfather, smiling with quiet pride, one hand resting on the arm of that same rocking chair. His gaze seemed to follow me, soft but insistent. It should have been comforting. Instead, it made the back of my neck prickle. 

I moved deeper into the house, through the dining room where dust coated the tablecloth like frost, into the kitchen where the clock above the stove ticked though I hadn't wound it. My footsteps echoed in the hallways, too loud for a house that should have been used to them by now. 

Everywhere I went, I felt it: the weight of the house pressing down, listening. 

By the time I climbed the staircase, the light outside had begun to dim, the woods beyond the windows folding into shadow. The hallway stretched long and narrow, lined with closed doors that hadn't been opened in years. My footsteps faltered. The air here was cooler, yet heavier, carrying with it that same faint smell of smoke. 

I whispered to myself that it was grief. Grief, twisting my perception. Grief, turning silence into whispers and shadows into movement. 

But grief doesn't make the curtains stir when the air is still. 

And grief doesn't make me feel like someone is standing just beyond the edge of sight, waiting for me to notice. 

I lingered at the top of the stairs, heart knocking against my ribs. Somewhere in the house, a floorboard creaked. 

I told myself it was the house. I told myself it was memory. I told myself it was grief. 

But already, deep down, I knew it was something else.