The car rolled to a stop in front of a rustic stone cottage, its shutters painted a cheerful blue that stood out against the lush green of the surrounding landscape. The air was crisp with the scent of pine and wildflowers, and for a brief moment, the weight of my loss lifted, replaced by a strange sense of anticipation.
I stepped out of the car, my heart pounding in my chest as I approached the front door. It was as though Richard had left me a breadcrumb trail leading to this very moment, and I was finally about to uncover the secret he had wanted me to find.
Pierre, the driver, gestured towards the door with a gentle nod, his eyes reflecting both sorrow and understanding. “He asked me to take care of everything,” he said softly, his voice carrying the assurance of someone who had long awaited this day. “Inside, you will find what you need.”
With trembling hands, I pushed open the door. Inside, the cottage was warm and inviting, a stark contrast to the sterile luxury of the penthouse Amanda had just inherited. The walls were lined with books, and a cozy fire crackled in the hearth. On the mantelpiece was a framed photograph of Richard as a child, his face alight with joy. I smiled through tears, the memory of my boy flooding back.
On a small wooden table by the window, a letter awaited me, its envelope bearing the same handwriting that had sent me across an ocean. I picked it up, my fingers tracing the familiar loops and curves of Richard’s script.
