I never liked the attic. Too dark, too dusty, always smelling like wet newspapers and something older, like the house itself was breathing. But Mom had asked me to clear a corner so she could stash some boxes for the café, so there I was, sweating in August heat, swatting at cobwebs.
Rusty, my golden retriever, was way too happy about it. He ran up the stairs like it was Christmas morning, nose to the floor, tail wagging like a flag.
“Fifteen minutes, boy,” I told him. “Then we’re out.”
But Rusty didn’t care. He pawed at the corner by the chimney, scratching like he knew something was under there. At first I thought he just smelled a mouse. Then one of the boards gave a long groan and popped loose.
“Rusty, what the heck did you find?”
I knelt down. Underneath was a shallow hole, dark and tight. Sitting inside was a small metal box, rusted all over. A key was already jammed into the latch, like it had been left that way on purpose.
My hands shook when I turned it. The lid creaked open, and a smell of old paper and mildew rushed out. Inside were folded pages tied with brittle twine.
Across the top, in my grandfather’s handwriting, were three words:
Last Will – Supplement.
I swear, my stomach dropped right through the floor.
I wasn’t supposed to find something like this. I wasn’t even supposed to be in the attic today. But there it was, sitting in my lap, looking like it had waited decades for me to show up.
The first page was yellowed, the ink faded but clear enough to read. It talked about “changing instructions” and “property of Walker House.” Then I saw the line that made me forget how to breathe:
This codicil supersedes my previous instructions regarding the house and the lands.
The house. The lands. That meant the whole Walker estate—the thing Uncle Charles inherited while Mom got nothing but debts and a broken café roof.
I flipped to the second page, but half of it was torn away. Right at the line that should’ve said who the property belonged to.
Only one letter remained.
An E.
I stared so long my eyes watered. My name is Ethan. Ethan Walker.
Rusty whined, pressing his chin against my knee. His paw scraped at the box again, and that’s when I noticed the false bottom. I lifted it and a brass key rolled out into my palm. Stamped along the stem were two words:
WALKER HOUSE.
I swear the attic got smaller around me.
Voices floated in my head. Uncle Charles telling me, when I was twelve, that men should know their place. Mom sighing at the kitchen table after another twelve-hour shift.
And here I was, holding a will that might say none of that was supposed to happen. That maybe everything belonged to me.
Before I could even process it, Rusty’s ears shot up. A car door slammed outside. Tires crunching gravel, slow and heavy. My blood ran cold.
The front door opened without a knock.
“Ethan?” My uncle’s voice carried up, calm and steady, too steady. “You up there?”
Rusty growled low, his whole body stiff. I pressed the folded papers against my chest, slipped the brass key into my pocket, and tried not to breathe.
Boots creaked on the porch. The stairwell shadows stretched toward me.
“I just have one question,” Charles called. “Do you have something that belongs to me?”
Rusty’s growl deepened. My fist tightened around the key until the edges bit into my palm.
And then—before I could move—another voice cut through the air.
“Ethan,” Mom said sharply from the doorway, her face pale, her eyes locked on mine. “Don’t let him see what you found.”
