She was the only one who stood by him in his final moments, taking care of him and being there for each hospital visit. And now, the house was hers. When she was ten, she’d asked once about the heavy padlock on the third-floor door.
He had put down his tea so sharply it sloshed onto the floor and said, without raising his voice, “You’ll never go in there. Not while I’m alive.” She’d nodded. Other kids had curious rooms and secret staircases. She had warnings.