According to the document, Stanisław had acquired the property decades ago.
But the most important part was not the description of the land.
It was the date.
The transfer had been recorded several years before his final illness, and the document contained a clause that appeared to name me as the intended beneficiary.
I read it again, struggling to understand the legal language.
Had my father-in-law left me a house after all?
And if he had, why had the notary said I inherited nothing?
I turned the paper over, hoping for an explanation.
There, in his handwriting, was a short note:
The key opens the iron box in the cellar. Everything you need to understand is inside.
I closed my fingers around the brass key.
For the first time since the funeral, I felt something other than grief.
Hope.
But before I could stand, I heard footsteps in the corridor.
