The Inheritance of Ashes
A New Life at Sixty-Five: The Vanishing Threshold
Part One
The cottage had been suspiciously cheap, but at sixty-five, Arthur Sterling wasn't in a position to ask questions. He stood on the creaky porch, looking out at the overgrown garden, and began to mutter to himself—a habit born of long months in hospital wards.
"Well, Arthur, it’s not much, but it’s yours. A small garden, a quiet village, a pension that covers the basics, and a bus that goes straight to the market. It’s better than that city cage. As for those wolves in suits... God sees everything. Their time will come, and they will weep for what they’ve done."
"Talking to yourself again, neighbor? It’s a fine habit. At least you’re guaranteed an honest listener."
Arthur jumped. Standing by the low stone wall was an elderly woman. Her eyes were a piercing, unnatural blue, and despite her age, she stood as straight as a needle.
"Don't fret about the apartment," she continued, her voice like dry leaves skittering on pavement. "They’ll be crawling back to return it soon enough. Mark my words."
Arthur froze. "How... how could you possibly know about the apartment? I haven't told a soul in this village."
The woman smiled, but it didn't reach her eyes. "Why don't you come in for a cup of tea, Arthur? It’s a long story, and the kettle is already whistling."
"I... I can't come empty-handed," Arthur stammered, his heart racing.
"You carry a soul full of warmth and forgotten peace. That is more than enough."
Inside her cottage, the air smelled of dried sage and old books. As they sat at a heavy oak table, Arthur couldn't hold back anymore.
"How do you know they’ll return it? And how do you know what happened to me?"
"I see paths, Arthur. Sometimes I show good people the way," Agatha said calmly. "I know about the men in the black suits. I know they broke your ribs and left you for dead in that hallway because you refused to sign their 'contract.' I know you spent two years in a hospital bed, learning how to breathe again while they toasted to their 'new acquisition.' But they forgot one thing. The vase."
Arthur felt a chill run down his spine. His breath caught in his throat. He had never mentioned the hospital to anyone here. He looked at Agatha with a mixture of awe and pure terror. Is she a saint or a witch?
"My mother’s vase..." he whispered.
"Exactly. It’s not just porcelain, Arthur. It carries the weight of your lineage. It’s lonely for its true master. If anyone else touches it, it will shatter, and with that glass, a darkness will be unleashed upon whoever dwells in that stolen home. It will bring ruin to the entire chain of people who wronged you."
Arthur stood up, his face pale. "But I have to warn them! The people who bought the place... they might be innocent. The realtors won't live there; they’ve already sold it. I can't let a tragedy happen because of a vase."
"You cannot change what has been set in motion," Agatha’s voice grew stern. "You didn't start this fire; they did. You begged them for mercy while they struck you down. You are lucky to be alive, Arthur. Let the scales of justice balance themselves. Stay here. Live in peace."
"I can't," Arthur groaned. "I can't live knowing others are suffering, even if they are strangers."
"The universe gives signs to those who listen," she replied. "Those who ignore the omens deserve the storm. But I see your heart is stubborn."
Arthur barely slept that night. His conscience clawed at him. By dawn, he had made his mind up. He had to go back to the city, find a way into his old apartment, and take the vase before it broke.
As he reached the gate in the morning mist, Agatha was already there, waiting.
"So, the soul won't rest?" she asked, her gaze softening. "You’re going for the vase. It’s a fool’s errand, Arthur. But it is your path."
"I have to try, Agatha. I have to do everything in my power."
"Go then," she said, making the sign of the cross over him. "May the shadows be kind to you."
Two hours later, Arthur stood before the familiar grey facade of his old apartment building in the city. The air here felt heavy, greasy with smog. He approached the main entrance, reaching for the handle of the heavy glass door.
But as his hand drew near, the air suddenly thickened. It felt as though he was pushing against a wall of cold, invisible water. He lunged forward, but his feet refused to move. A terrifying, silent vibration shook his chest, and an overwhelming sense of dread washed over him—a voice in his head that wasn't his own, screaming: GO BACK.
He was only inches from the door, but it might as well have been a thousand miles away. An invisible force held the threshold, barring the way, as if the building itself had rejected him.
To be continued...
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