Her eyes swept the apartment with disdain.
Robert added, “Compy assets, patents. You know the drill.”
I stood in the doorway, blocking them.
“There are no records for you here.”
But they pushed past anyway, the lawyer murmuring something about implied rights of review.
Grandpa sat at the kitchen table, his old notebook open in front of him, his hand resting on the page like a guard.
He didn’t rise, didn’t shout.
He only looked at them with a weariness that cut deeper than anger.
Linda rifled through drawers.
Robert opened cabinets.
And then I heard movement in the garage.
I ran out to find Ryan snapping photos of Guardian Step prototypes, his phone light flashing across the boards we had built.
I shoved him back, rage boiling.
“Delete it,” I growled.
He sneered.
“This doesn’t belong to you, Ethan. It never did.”
My fists clenched, and for a moment it nearly turned into a fight.
Grandpa’s voice broke the tension.
“Enough.”
He was still at the table, notebook closed now, his gaze steady.
“If you want to see what’s mine, then look around. The only thing worth anything here is what he”—he nodded at Miha’s—”built with his hands.”
They didn’t answer.
They left in a flurry of wet umbrellas and muttered threats.
But in the chaos, Ryan dropped a manila folder.
I bent to pick it up.
Inside was a draft titled proposed Miller Estate Division, already stamped and signed by both Linda and Robert.
My throat tightened.
They had written him off long ago, carving up what wasn’t theirs yet.
After they were gone, the apartment felt smaller, as if their shadows lingered.
Rainwater dripped from the doorframe.
Grandpa called me over and handed me a small wooden box.
Its surface scratched with age, its lock simple but firm.
“One day,” he said softly. “When I’m not here, you’ll open this. Inside is what you’ll need.”
I sat by the window long after he went to bed, the box heavy in my lap.
Outside, water streaked the glass, distorted street light glowing like lightning.
My hands trembled around the box, and I whispered to myself, “The storm hasn’t started. This is only the first thunder.”
Phân cảnh 11: The final goodbye
Autumn sunlight filtered weakly through the blinds that morning, golden but thin, as if it already knew the day carried weight.
I found Grandpa in his chair by the window, his book closed on his lap, the tea beside him gone cold.
The pocket watch lay on the table, its ticking stopped, its hands frozen at 72.
His face was calm, lips curled in the faintest smile.
I touched his hand and knew before the truth settled.
I was alone.
I sat there for hours, unable to call anyone, unwilling to break the stillness he had left behind.
When I finally stood, I felt like I was moving in a world that had shifted just slightly off its axis.
The funeral was small, just as he had wanted.
Neighbors from the building, a few colleagues, nurses who remembered his kindness.
At the door of St. At Bartholomew’s church, I stood greeting people, my throat raw from trying to hold back the tide inside me.
The red brick walls and the deep toll of bells made the day feel heavier than the casket.
And then, like actors arriving late to a play, Linda, Robert, and Ryan appeared.
Their black clothes were sharp, their smiles rehearsed.
Linda stretched her arms toward me as if we hadn’t gone 8 years without a word.