**The Inheritance**
The old London flat hummed with unusual activity. The doorbell jangled every few minutes as relatives trickled in—this time, a burly man in an expensive suit, the jacket straining over his round belly.
A pale, plain woman offered him a sour smile, while another man rose from the sofa to greet him.
“Stephen! Didn’t think you’d come.” They shook hands. “Sit down. How’ve you been?”
The woman shifted further down the sofa, making room, though her disapproval was obvious.
*”Is this really Ivan’s wife? He had his pick of girls, and he ends up with—”* Words failed Stephen.
The bell rang again. All three turned toward the door. Only one person remained to arrive. A tall man in black trousers and a navy-blue jumper stepped inside, the crisp white shirt underneath immaculate.
Boris gave a curt nod, scanned the room, and sank into a threadbare armchair in the corner.
*”Look at Boris, all fancy now,”* Stephen thought. He recognised him instantly, though it had been thirty years. So here they were—three brothers, three heirs, circling like vultures over a carcass. Stephen had hoped no one else would show, least of all Boris.
They’d been summoned to say farewell to Aunt Elizabeth. That’s what the telegram said—*”to say farewell.”* The address was included, just in case they’d forgotten.
Stephen lived comfortably now—a good job, a house in Surrey, a car, two daughters, one already a grandmother herself. He didn’t *need* the inheritance. He’d come out of curiosity.
This flat had once seemed enormous to him. The dark corners, the towering grandfather clock, the heavy oak furniture—it had all frightened him as a boy.
When their father fell from scaffolding at a construction site, their mother withered from grief. How could she raise three boys alone? Ivan, the youngest, was barely five. Life became hard. Then, out of nowhere, her estranged brother appeared—someone the children had never heard of—and offered to take the two eldest boys, just until she recovered.
He and his wife couldn’t have children. He gave her money and left with the boys. Their mother drowned in sorrow, drinking herself to death.
Aunt Elizabeth was strict, cold. She fed them, clothed them, tried to love them. Stephen, the eldest, saw his chance. He played the doting nephew, currying favour.
Boris, the middle one, withdrew. He wanted no part of this new family. After school, unlike Stephen, he skipped university, returning instead to his hometown, to their parents’ old flat. He worked, studied at night. Their uncle sent money at first, but Boris always returned it with a note: *I don’t need it.*
Stephen married in his final year of uni and moved to his wife’s family in Edinburgh. Ivan, the youngest, was a wastrel—the black sheep, as they say.
*”This place needs work. Could sell for a tidy sum. The furniture’s solid, vintage—none of that flimsy modern stuff. And that crystal in the cabinet? Worth a fortune. And the savings? Unless they vanished in the ‘90s…”* Stephen caught himself, realising he was getting ahead.
His eyes kept flicking to Boris, who sat motionless, legs crossed. Ivan murmured to his wife, sneaking glances at his brothers. *Boris was always the outcast, in their aunt’s bad books. Ivan would waste his share…* Stephen believed he deserved it most.
A pretty girl had let them in—probably a carer. Just as he thought it, a wheelchair rolled in, carrying a frail old woman. Her head drooped forward, a thick tartan blanket over her lap.
The girl positioned the chair so the woman could see everyone. Against her withered frame, the girl looked even lovelier. The brothers were stunned—they hadn’t expected *her* to be alive.
Stephen did the maths. She must be over eighty. Why had he assumed she was dead? The telegram invited them *to say farewell.* That was all.
He studied her—wrinkled face, liver spots, wild grey hair sticking out. Arthritic hands, bulging veins resting on the armrests. Time hadn’t spared the proud, formidable woman he remembered.
“Elizabeth is happy to see you all,” the girl said brightly.
“At her request, I tracked you down. Apologies if the telegram was unclear. She wanted to settle matters—avoid disputes later.”
“So our wishes will be considered?” Stephen perked up.
“Not exactly. Tea, anyone?” She turned to Ivan’s wife.
“And you are?” Stephen interrupted.
“This is Grace. My granddaughter.” The old woman’s voice was a dry rasp.
Stephen gaped, then shot a look at Boris, who remained still. Ivan fidgeted.
*”Ivan’s daughter? Another heir. That’s… inconvenient. Proof of relation needed.”* He glared at Grace’s back.
Soon, only the brothers and their aunt remained.
“Thank you for coming,” she croaked. “Thought I was dead, eh? Not here for me—the inheritance. Fine. You’ll get what you deserve. Just don’t quarrel at my grave if you dislike the will.”
“Is there anything *worth* quarrelling over?” Stephen asked.
“You’ve changed. Boris—glad you came, though you never liked me. Ivan, still a wastrel.” She sighed. “I’m old, but not senile.” Her head drooped again.
Moments later, Grace called them to tea. Ivan bolted like a prisoner freed. Boris and Stephen stayed put.
“You two never made up?” Elizabeth asked suddenly.
“Never happened,” Stephen said for them both.
“Gotten fat, I see. That jacket won’t last. Done well for yourself. Why didn’t you bring your wife?”
“Too busy—headmistress now. Two daughters, both married. One’s given me a grandson.”
“Brothers should stick together. You’re all I have left. And Grace. The flat goes to her. Don’t look at me like that, Stephen. She cared for me ten years. I’m alive because of her. You? Not a birthday card, not a visit. I tried to be a mother—failed. Boris, fine. But *you*, Stephen?”
He shifted, lost for words.
“There’s the cottage. Sturdy place, big garden. Remember how you loved it, Boris? And the ‘78 Mercedes in the garage. A classic now. Still runs.”
She bared yellowed teeth in what might’ve been a smile. Stephen’s skin prickled. *”Still alive. Still has her own teeth. Witch.”*
“Grace!” The girl appeared instantly.
“I’m tired. Bed.”
Only then did Stephen notice the lights were on—outside, it was dark. The grandfather clock read 9:55. It felt like mere hours since he’d arrived. Time had slipped away.
Grace wheeled Elizabeth out.
“I thought she was dead. Came to say goodbye—she’s alive,” Stephen muttered.
Boris said nothing.
“If she’s announced the will, she *has* to die now, right?” Stephen joked. Boris didn’t laugh.
Grace showed them to their rooms. Ivan had already left for a hotel.
Stephen couldn’t sleep. The flat creaked—footsteps, whispers. He rose twice, finding nothing. Only at dawn did he drift off.
Morning brought silence. Eerie. No movement. *”Just nerves. Shouldn’t have come.”* He sighed, eyed yesterday’s shirt. Unthinkable. But he’d packed for a funeral.
Grimacing, he put it on. The kitchen was set—coffee hot, breakfast laid. His stomach growled. *”Grace did this? Not bad. Too young for me. And married…”*
He was on his second coffee when the bell rang. A short, round doctor in a white coat entered, Grace trailing.
“Is Elizabeth alright?” Stephen asked. No answer.
He followed, but Grace blocked the bedroom door.
“You can’t go in.” It shut in his face.
He knocked on Ivan’s room. Empty. *”What’s happening?”*
In the hall, he cornered the doctor.
“Elizabeth passed last night,” the man said, adjusting his glasses.
“Why?”
“Old age.”
Grace wiped her eyes. “She didn’t want the morgue. Dr. Whitmore handled it. Funeral’s tomorrow.”
“She’ll stay *here*? That’s—” Stephen’s voice cracked.
“If it bothers you, I’ll book you a hotel.”
“*Please.* I won’t stay another minute.”
“But don’t leave town. The will’s to be read after.”
He waved her off, fleeing to a nearby hotel.
At the funeral, Stephen felt nothing. Ivan watched like a spectator. But Boris—*tears?* Unexpected.
Back at the flat, two elderly women had prepared the wake. Ivan, drunk, boasted they’d washed and dressed the body. Stephen recoiled—those same hands had laid out the food. He ate nothing.
At the solicitor’Grace walked into the cottage garden, where Boris stood waiting under the old oak tree, and for the first time in years, she didn’t feel alone.
