An orphan inherited only a pitiful letter But when she read it, the laughter of her husband and his mistress twisted into panic!
Orphan Emily sat in the cold, tomb-like office of the solicitor, hunched beneath the weight of venomous stares. To her left and rightlike foxes circling a henhousesat Gregory, her husband, and his mistress, Lydia. He wore a smug grin, as though victory were already his; she let out a spiteful giggle, savouring the thought of tearing her rival apart. The air hung thick, like treacle, heavy with unspoken malice. The solicitora withered old man with a face like crumpled parchmentrecited the will of Aunt Margaret, the only soul who had ever shown Emily kindness.
and all assets, including the cottage, land, and savings, shall pass to Gregory Whitmore, he intoned, oblivious to Lydias barely suppressed smirk. Her lips, painted crimson, curled in triumph. Emily felt something within her splinter.
Gregory burst into laughter, the sound bouncing off the walls like mockery. Lydia joined in, her voice razor-sharp. Emily sat frozen, fists clenched, unable to lift her gaze. Was this all life had left hera mere letter? After years of misery, neglect, and solitude, she received not a crust of bread nor a roof, but a scrap of paper? It was no giftonly fates cruel jest.
The envelope the solicitor handed her weighed like lead. She took it without a word and fled beneath a hail of Lydias taunts:
A letter! At least itll make good tinder!
Emily returned to her dingy flat as if walking to the gallows. In her cramped room, where damp clung to the walls and the window overlooked a barren courtyard, she sat clutching the yellowed envelope. Her fingers trembled. Aunt Margaret had been her only lightthe sole person who saw her as more than a burden. With a ragged breath, she tore it open.
My dearest Em, the letter began, If you hold this, I am gone, and the world has been unkind once more. Forgive me for failing you. But know thiseverything of worth, I hid for you. Gregory and his viper inherit only dust. In the old yew tree by the brook where we read poetry, youll find a hollow. Seek it. Your freedom lies within.
Emilys heart beat like a trapped sparrow. Memories surged: the ancient yew, towering like a guardian; the hollow where theyd tucked away their favourite books; Aunt Margarets voice murmuring tales by firelight. This wasnt the end. It was a beginning.
At dawn, while the village slept, Emily slipped away. Gregory and Lydia, drunk on imagined triumph, didnt notice her absence. With hope fluttering in her chest, she walked toward her future.
Beneath moss and years, she found a tin box in the yews hollow. Insidedeeds to a cosy cottage in Cornwall, a bank account in her name, bundled letters from Aunt Margaret brimming with love, and a locket engraved: You are braver than you know.
Those words were a lifeline. She packed her meagre belongings and left that night. Gregory and Lydia, lost in their hollow victory, didnt realise she was gone until it was too late. The cottage theyd inherited was crumbling, the land mortgaged, the savings long spent.
Emily began anew. In a snug house by the sea, where gulls cried and waves whispered, she found peace. She read Aunt Margarets letters, studied, worked, and breathed freely. Each evening, watching the sun dip below the horizon, she murmured, Thank you, Aunt Margaret. Miles away, Gregory and Lydia turned on each other, cursing their worthless prize.
The letter was no mere scrapit was a key to the life she deserved. She took the name Margaret in her aunts honour and rebuilt her world. A job at the village library became her calling. She shelved books, taught children to read, and pored over old volumes in the lamplight. The locket became her talisman, a reminder she was unbroken.
But the past clung like shadows. Months later, Gregory appeared at her door. His once-fine suit was threadbare, his smirk replaced by a snarl. Lydia had abandoned him when their fortune proved illusory. Hearing gossip of Emilys new life, he came seething.
You! he spat, pounding the door. You stole whats mine! Wheres Margarets money? I know she hid it!
Emily met his glare calmly. Years of hurt had taught her to stand tall.
You took what you wanted, Gregory, she said softly. Aunt knew your heart. Leave.
He stepped closer, but her steadiness unnerved him. Or perhaps it was the burly fisherman, Thomas, passing by just then. Gregory spat curses and slunk away, vowing revenge.
Emily felt no fear. Gregory was a hollow man, eaten by greed. Still, she wrote to the solicitor to confirm the wills legality. The reply came swiftly: all was in order. Aunt Margaret had foreseen everythingeven Gregorys rage.
Time drifted. Emily settled into the village. She grew close to Thomas, a gentle soul who taught her to mend nets, and she lent him books. One day, rummaging in the attic, she found another letter stitched inside an old cushion. It read: Em, when darkness comes, rememberyoure never alone. Seek those who see your soul. They are your true treasure.
Those words guided her. Emily began helping othersorphans, the elderly, anyone needing warmth. She started free reading classes at the library for village children. The community blossomed, and folks grew fond of quiet Margaret by the shore.
Gregory never returned. Rumour claimed hed drowned in debt and drink. Lydia, they said, had fled with a tradesman but found no joy. Emily, sipping tea by her window, watched the sunset and smiled. Aunts letter had been more than an inheritanceit was a compass to a life of meaning. And every day, she proved she was braver than anyone had dreamed.
