**Diary Entry**
The city air felt stifling that day, the kind that sits heavy in your lungs. When the letter arrived, the envelope was yellowed with age, smelling faintly of salt and the seasomething unmistakably nostalgic. My hands trembled as I tore it open, revealing the neat, old-fashioned handwriting. Grandma Sophia had left me her house by the coast, the same one where Id spent every summer of my childhood.
My heart raced, a tangled mess of joy and grief. I could almost feel the hot sand under my bare feet again, hear the crash of the waves, and remember the softness of Grandmas hands as shed greet me at the door.
I called Mark immediately. His voice on the other end was cold, irritated, as if Id interrupted something far more important.
“Mark, I have to go,” I began, steadying my voice though my chest tightened. “Grandmas will she left me the house by the sea.”
A pause. Then, flatly”That old place? Half falling apart?”
“Its not falling apart!” I snapped. “Its historic, full of memories. You rememberI spent every summer there. My parents sent me because Grandma adored me. Shed take me to the beach, hold my hand when I was little. Later, Id run wild with the neighbours kids. Wed pack sandwiches, stay out till dusk. The sun, the waves, the laughter…”
“And how long will you be gone?” His dry tone yanked me back to reality.
“I dont know. Not just a weekend. I need to sort things out. I havent been there since university. Three years ago. Ill take leave. You could” I hesitated, hope threading through my words. “You could come after. Its only a days drive. Take some time off. We could be by the sea together.”
“Not really missing the sea,” he said indifferently. “Fine. Ill see about work.”
His words hung heavy. Hed “see.” Like always.
Three days later, I packed my bags, heart fluttering with the hope hed change his minddrive me to the station, kiss me goodbye, say hed miss me. But three hours before my train, his call came.
“Alice, sorrywork crisis. Youll manage a taxi, right?” His voice was strained, insincere.
“Of course,” I said, the lie thick in my throat.
The taxi ride was silent, the city blurring past. Thenmy stomach dropped. At a traffic light, his car. And not just his car. Mark, *my* Mark, helping a slender woman in a summer dress out of the passenger seat. They smiled at each other, heading into a café.
“Stop, please!” My voice shook.
I stumbled out, fury and pain choking me. Inside the café, they leaned over a shared menu, fingers nearly touching.
“Hi,” I said, icy. “So this is your *urgent* work?” His face paled. “Goodbye. Dont call. Ever.”
I left before he could speak.
The journeytrain, then another taxipassed in a numb haze. The taxi driver stopped at rusted iron gates, overgrown with ivy.
“Here,” he muttered.
I paid, dragged my bags out. The air was thick with lavender and salt. The heavy old key turned with a groan, the gate creaking open.
The garden was wild, Grandmas flower beds now a tangle of blooms. The house loomed ahead, its oak door stiff with disuse. Inside, dust coated everything. The grand staircase, the stained-glass window casting coloured light on the floor. *Mine now.*
I traced the roomsthe parlour with its hearth where wed roasted potatoes, the dining table where wed laughed. The china cabinet held treasures: delicate porcelain, a cup marked *1890*.
A crash upstairs startled me. Just the wind.
In Grandmas bedroom, her bed still stood, the silk canopy faded. I collapsed onto it, exhausted.
A knock at the door.
A kind-faced woman stood there. “Alice? Remember me?”
Auntie Hannah, my childhood friends mother. Her son, Zachnow growncame later to help with the crystal chandelier, cracking jokes as we worked.
We spent the day cleaning, laughing. By evening, he took me to a café, then the beach. The water was warm, the sunset golden.
That night, Mark called, repentant. “I miss you. Im coming”
“Dont,” I said softly. “Its over.”
I hung up, thinking of Zachs honest smile, Grandmas whisper in my dream: *Make the right choice.*
I did.
**Now**the house is alive again. I live here full-time, working remotely. Zach and I married quietly on the terrace, the sea our witness.
Tonight, his hand rests on my rounding belly as we watch the moon paint silver on the waves.
“Thank you, Grandma,” I whisper. “For the house. The legacy. And helping me choose.”
Somewhere inside,the chandelier chimes faintly in reply.
