The oppressive city air weighed heavily on Emily the afternoon the letter arrived. The envelope, yellowed with age, carried the faint scent of saltwater and something achingly familiarchildhood summers. Her hands shook as she unfolded the crisp paper, her grandmothers elegant script leaping off the page. Granny Eleanor had left her the housethe sprawling Victorian by the Cornish coast where every blissful summer of her youth had unfolded.
Emilys pulse quickened, joy and grief twisting together. She could still feel the warm sand between her toes, hear the crash of waves, see Grannys kind face waiting at the door.
She dialled James at once. His voice crackled through the phone, distracted and impatient, as though shed interrupted something far more important.
“James, I have to go,” she began, steadying herself. “Grannys willshe left me the house by the sea.”
A beat of silence. Then, incredulous: “That crumbling old place?”
“Its not crumbling!” Emily shot back. “Its grand, full of history. You rememberI spent every summer there. Mum and Dad would pack me off without a second thought because Granny Eleanor adored me. Shed hold my hand all the way to the shore when I was little. Later, Id race there with the village children. Wed pack jam sandwiches and apples and stay out till dusk. Sun, surf, laughter…”
“And how long will you be gone?” His tone was clipped, dragging her back to the stifling city.
“I dont know, but certainly not just a weekend,” she sighed. “I need to sort things out. I havent been back since uni. Three years since I graduated. Ill take leave. You could join me laterits only a few hours by train. Take a couple days off. We could rest. By the sea.”
“Not exactly pining for the seaside,” he muttered. “Fine, Ill see how work goes…”
The words hung between them, heavy with empty promise. Hed “see”just as he always did, always choosing his precious work over her.
Three days later, Emily packed her bags, heart fluttering with hope he might change his mind, drive her to the station, kiss her goodbye. Instead, three hours before her train, his call came.
“Emily, sorrycant take you. Work emergency. Youll manage a cab, wont you?” His voice held a false note.
“Of course,” she replied, throat tight. “Dont worry.”
She hailed a taxi, staring blankly through the window as London blurred past. The city watched her go with grey indifference. Thenher stomach lurched. At a red light stood his car. And there he was, James, helping a willowy blonde in a floral dress from the passenger seat. They laughed, heads bent close, before disappearing into a cosy café.
“Stopplease, stop here!” Emilys voice trembled. She threw open the door, anger burning through her. Inside the café, they sat by the window, fingers brushing over a shared menu.
“Hello,” she said, voice sharp as frost. “I see youre *terribly* busy. Just one thinggoodbye. Dont call me again. Ever.”
She turned on her heel, ignoring his shouts. The taxi ride to Paddington, the cramped train carriage, the winding country roadsall passed in a haze of fury. Traitor. Liar.
The surly driver finally halted at wrought-iron gates tangled with ivy. “Here you are,” he grunted.
Emily hauled her bags out, standing alone as the car sped off. The air was thick with honeysuckle and salt. With Grannys heavy iron key, she unlocked the rusted padlock. The gates groaned open, revealing an overgrown gardenGrannys roses fighting through weeds, a stubborn echo of warmth.
The oak front door resisted, stiff with age, then gave way with a sigh. Inside, silence. No scent of baking, no dried lavender from the attic. The grand hall stretched upward, the carved staircase bannister still marked where shed gnawed it as a child. Stained glass scattered jewel-toned light across the dusty floor.
“Its mine now,” she whispered. “Thank you, Granny.”
Room by room, memories surfaced. The parlour with its vast fireplace, where theyd toasted crumpets. The dining rooms oak table, the china cabinet filled with delicate Wedgwoodeach piece priceless, yet Granny had used them daily.
A bang upstairs startled her. Probably a loose shutter. Heart pounding, she climbed the steps. Grannys bedroom stood untouchedthe four-poster bed, the wardrobe smelling of cedar and time. She collapsed onto the mattress, dust swirling.
Thena knock.
On the doorstep stood Mrs. Whitmore, her neighbour, face lined but kind. “Emily, dear! Recognise me?”
“Aunt Maggie!” Emily blinked. “How did you?”
“Saw the gate open. Your Granny asked me to keep an eye on things. My Lucys married now, moved to Bristol. But my Toms backremember him?”
Tom. The older brother whod seemed so untouchable.
“Hes handyif you need help,” Maggie said. “Youre the image of Granny Eleanor. Beautiful.”
That evening, Emily stood at the shore, sunset painting the sky. She almost reached for her phonethen stopped. James didnt deserve this beauty.
Night fell fast. In Grannys bed, she dreamed of gentle fingers smoothing her hair, a whisper: *”Make the right choice, love.”*
Morning light revealed the filthy chandelier. Maggie sent Tom over with a ladder.
He was taller now, broad-shouldered, eyes warm as whiskey. “So youre the Emily who stole our blackberries?”
She laughed. “Guilty.”
They cleaned all dayhim scaling the ladder, her passing cloths. By dusk, the chandelier blazed like diamonds.
“Fancy dinner?” Tom asked. “Theres a decent pub in the village.”
Over fish and chips, he made her laugh for the first time in years. They walked the beach, swam in the warm shallows.
That night, James called, whining apologies.
Emily cut him off. “Dont bother.”
The choice was clearpast or future. Lies or something real.
Time passed. The house came alivecrackling fires, baking bread. She married Tom in a quiet ceremony on the terrace, the sea their witness.
Now, under a silver moon, Emily rested a hand on her rounded belly. The baby kicked.
“Thank you, Granny,” she whispered.
Inside, the chandeliers crystals chimed softly in the breeze.
