Inheritance

At 3:03 a.m., Jenny awoke to the creak of the floorboards downstairs.

Not the house settling. Not the wind.

She swung her legs over the side of the bed, her bare feet brushing the cool wooden floor, and reached into the drawer of the nightstand. The revolver felt heavier than she remembered. Ten years since she’d last held it.

She moved quietly down the hallway, past the photos she hadn’t taken down, the dust-soft frames of a life that had ended twice already.

In the living room, the lamp was on. That alone stopped her.

He stood by the bookshelf, thin and dark-haired, one hand holding a small box, the other rifling through old letters she hadn’t touched in years. When he turned at the sound of the hammer clicking back, his face was tired but young.

“Sit,” Jenny said, leveling the revolver at his chest.

The man raised his hands slowly, almost gently, and eased onto the couch. His eyes flickered across the room, as if measuring distances, exits, something unseen.

“I wasn’t going to hurt you,” he said.

“I’ll be the judge of that,” Jenny replied. “Here’s how this goes. You’re going to tell me why you’re here. Why you broke into my house. And if I hear a lie—if I don’t hear guilt or remorse or something that makes sense—I’ll shoot.”

She let the weight of the words settle.

The man smiled faintly, not mockingly but as if recognizing a line in a play he already knew. “That’s fair.”

“Talk.”

He set the box on the coffee table. “Do you believe in ghosts?”

Jenny frowned. “What kind of answer is that?”

He shrugged. “Humor me.”

“I don’t believe in anything.”

“Maybe that’s your problem.” He leaned forward, elbows on knees, hands folded. “I’m not here for your silver. Or your jewelry. Or your TV.”

“Obviously.”

“I’m here for him.” He tapped the side of his head. “Or what’s left of him.”

Jenny’s throat tightened. “Who.”

“James.”

The name, spoken aloud, cracked through the room like thunder. Jenny’s grip tightened. “James is dead.”

“Sure,” the man said softly. “But dead doesn’t mean gone, does it?”

Jenny stared.

“He told me there was something here,” the man continued. “A letter. A key. Something he left behind for me…an inheritance.”

Jenny shook her head slowly. “There’s no letter.”

“You sure about that?” His voice was almost kind. “You looked for it?”

“I never had a reason to.”

“Maybe you didn’t want to find it.”

Jenny felt heat rising in her chest, a coil tightening. “Who are you?”

He gave a small sigh, as if tired of the dance. “Evan.”

She blinked. “I don’t know you.”

“You wouldn’t.” He rubbed his jaw. “I’m his son.”

The words fell like stones into a well.

Jenny stared, something hollow opening inside her ribcage. “No.”

“He didn’t tell you.” Evan’s smile was sad, resigned. “Didn’t think he would.”

“That’s not possible.”

“It is.” He gestured around the room. “You think you knew him. But he left little pieces of himself scattered everywhere. I’m just one of them.”

Jenny’s legs wobbled; she leaned against the armchair. “Why are you here.”

“I told you.” Evan’s eyes darkened. “He said you’d hate me. Said you’d never give me what he left. That you’d pretend it never existed.”

“I never knew!” Jenny’s voice cracked, louder than she meant.

“I believe you,” Evan said quietly. “But that doesn’t change anything.”

They sat in the lamp’s glow, shadows pressing at the edges of the room.

“Maybe there’s no letter,” Evan said. “Maybe it was just one more lie. But I had to see.”

Jenny’s hand shook. She lowered the revolver a fraction, suddenly aware of its absurd weight. “I didn’t keep anything from you.”

“Didn’t you?” Evan’s gaze locked onto hers. “Not even him?”

The question dug under her skin, splintered like glass.

“I don’t know what you want from me,” she whispered.

“I wanted to know if he was right about you.” Evan leaned back into the couch, exhaustion settling over him like a blanket. “If you’d rather erase me than face me.”

Jenny swallowed hard, the room spinning slightly. “And?”

Evan tilted his head, studying her, a strange sadness in his eyes. “You’ve been holding that gun since I sat down. What does that tell you?”

Jenny’s arm ached. She realized she had no idea when she’d last lowered the hammer. Or if she ever had.

“I’m not the one haunting this place,” Evan murmured. “You are.”

Jenny looked at the revolver. At the smooth steel barrel. At the empty photos on the walls.

“I never knew,” she said again, softer this time.

“I know.” Evan stood, slowly. “That’s the tragedy.”

He walked to the door, opened it. The night beyond was moonless, black as pitch.

“I don’t hate you,” he said, pausing at the threshold. “But I’m not the ghost you’re waiting for.”

He stepped outside.

Jenny stood alone in the flickering lamplight. The revolver felt warm in her hands now, familiar.

She turned it, slowly, and pressed the barrel under her chin.

In the silence that followed, she thought she heard a voice, distant and thin:

“I left it for you, Jenny. I left it where you’d never look.”

The trigger clicked once.

Then twice.

Then the chamber spun empty.

Outside, the wind howled, and the house creaked, and somewhere beneath the floorboards, something knocked once, then was still.