The lock to the East Wing yielded reluctantly. Inside, dust veiled a room frozen in time. Dresses hung neatly, perfume bottles lined the dresser, and a photograph of his aunt smiled from the mantel. It was no crypt of guilt but a shrine of love—Henry’s way of preserving her presence long after her death.
That night, he stood by the crooked oak, staring at the dark earth. The hole gaped silently, but the weight on his chest had lifted. Andrew whispered into the night, “I understand now, Uncle.” The estate still loomed broken and alien, yet now it held meaning. What he had inherited was not ruin or rumor, but truth, and in that truth, peace.