That night, the house seemed to hold its breath, cloaked in shadows that flickered with the passing headlights from the street. My mind replayed the day’s events, a montage of condolences and muted voices that filtered through the fog of my grief. But beneath it all, the messages tugged at my thoughts, refusing to be dismissed as mere pranks.
Once the house was still, I moved silently, making my way to Richard’s study. The room carried his scent—a blend of leather and the faint aroma of his favorite cigars. The desk stood as an imposing presence in the center, its polished surface now an object of mystery and potential revelation.
I hesitated for a moment, my fingers grazing the cool wood. Could this really be happening? Was I about to uncover something that would shatter the fragile reality I was clinging to? The unknown number’s words echoed: “The real will is in here.”
