The stifling London air felt particularly oppressive to Emily the day the letter arrived. The envelope, yellowed with age, carried the scent of salt and something faintly nostalgicchildhood summers in Cornwall. With trembling fingers, she opened it and read the neat, old-fashioned handwriting. Granny Eleanor had left her the seaside housethe very one where shed spent every glorious summer as a girl.
Emilys heart raced, joy and sorrow twisting together. She could almost feel the warm sand between her toes, hear the crash of waves, and picture Grannys gentle hands ushering her inside.
She rang James at once. His voice crackled through the phone, distant and impatient, as if shed interrupted something terribly important.
James, I have to go, she began, bracing herself. Grannys will she left me the house by the sea.
A pause. Then, with a hint of derision: That old wreck? The one thats practically falling into the ocean?
Its not a wreck! Emily snapped. Its full of history. You rememberI spent every summer there. Mum and Dad shipped me off without a second thought because Granny doted on me. Shed hold my hand as we walked to the beach when I was little. Later, Id run wild with the local kids. Sandwiches, sunburn, and saltwaterwed stay out till dusk.
And how long dyou plan to be gone? His tone was clipped, practical, dragging her back to the smoggy city.
I dont know, but certainly not a weekend, she sighed. The place needs sorting. I havent been back since uni. That was years ago. Ill take leave. You could She hesitated, hope threading her words. You could join me later. Its only a few hours drive. Come Fridaywe could have the weekend by the sea.
Not exactly pining for sea air, he muttered. Fine, Ill see how work goes
The words hung between them. Hed see. Just like he always did, burying himself in spreadsheets while she waited in vain.
Three days later, Emily packed her bags, her stomach fluttering with hopemaybe hed change his mind, drive her to Paddington, kiss her goodbye, promise to miss her. Instead, three hours before her train, his call came.
Sorry, love. Work crisis. Youll manage a cab, yeah? His voice had that practised nonchalance she knew too well.
Of course, she said, throat tight. Dont fret.
She hailed a taxi and stared blankly out the window as London blurred past. The city bid her farewell with grey indifference. Thenher heart lurched. At a red light, there was his car. And not just idling. Jamesher Jameswas helping a willowy woman in a floral dress out of the passenger seat. They laughed, exchanged words, and vanished into a cosy café.
Stop here! Emily blurted, voice shaking. Ill pay extrajust wait!
She stumbled onto the pavement, fury and hurt boiling in her chest. The café door swung open under her hand. There they were, heads bent over a menu, fingers nearly touching.
Hello, she said, icy as January. Busy, I see. Just one thinggoodbye. Dont call. Ever.
She spun on her heel, ignoring his sputtered protests, and fled back to the taxi, nails digging into her palms.
The journeytrain, taxi winding through Cornish lanespassed in a haze of anger. Over and over, she replayed his smile, his attentiveness. Liar. Cheat.
The grouchy driver finally stopped at wrought-iron gates choked with ivy. Here yare, he grunted.
Emily hauled her bags out. The engine roared away, leaving her alone before the house.
Silence. The air smelled of thyme, salt, and forgotten years. She fumbled with the heavy keyringGrannys legacyand the rusted padlock clicked open like a starting pistol for her new life.
The garden was wild, Grannys roses battling through weeds. The oak front door groaned in protest as she pushed it open.
Inside, the house held its breath. No scent of scones, no herbs drying in the attic. The grand staircase rose before her, its bannister still bearing the tooth marks shed left as a child. Stained glass scattered jewel-toned light across the floorboards.
Mine now, she whispered. Thank you, Granny.
Room by room, she rediscovered the past. The parlour with its cavernous fireplace, the dining rooms oak table where theyd eaten Sunday roasts. The china cabinet held treasuresdelicate porcelain Granny had used daily. Emily turned a cup over. Wedgwood, 1890. A small fortune, treated like crockery.
A thud upstairs startled her. Probably a loose sash window. She climbed the steps, heart pounding.
Grannys bedroom was untouched. The four-poster bed, its canopy sun-bleached, still smelled faintly of lavender. Emily flopped onto it, dust swirling.
Thena sharp rap at the door.
On the step stood Mrs. Higgins, her kind face lined with years. Emily, pet! Recognise me?
Mrs. Higgins! Shed been the neighbour, mother of her childhood friend Lucy.
Saw the gates openknew youd arrived. Your Granny asked me to keep an eye on things. And my Lucys married now, moved to Bristol. Just me and my Tom left. She peered closer. Youre the spit of your Granny, you know. Need anything, just ask. Toms handyfixes anything.
That evening, Emily scrubbed the kitchen, exhausted. She nipped to the village shop, returning as the sunset set the sea aflame. She nearly phoned Jamesthen stopped. The wound was still raw.
Forget him, she told herself.
Night fell fast. She slept in Grannys bed, leaving the lamp onthe house felt vast and unfamiliar.
She dreamed Granny stood by the bed, smiling. Make the right choice, love.
Emily woke, certain someone was there. Only the waves answered.
Morning revealed the filthy chandelier in the parlour. Mrs. Higgins sent Tom over with a ladder.
She barely recognised the broad-shouldered man on her doorstep. Gone was the lanky boy shed trailed afterthis Tom had laugh lines and calloused hands.
The Emily who pinched all our strawberries? he teased.
They cleaned the chandelier, laughing as crystal prisms caught the light. By afternoon, hed fixed creaky doors and stuck windows.
Fancy a bite? he asked. The Fishermans Arms does a decent pie.
Over dinner, he regaled her with village gossip. Later, they walked the beach, the water warm as bathwater.
Back home, her phone rang. James, oozing false remorse. Miss you, Em. Send the addressIll visit.
Toms face flashed in her mindhis honesty, his ease. Grannys voice echoed: *Make the right choice.*
Dont bother, she said coolly. Were done.
She hung up, the truth settling like clear water. The choice wasnt between London and Cornwall. It was between the past and something real, just beginning.
Time passed. Emily stayed. She married Tom in the garden, the sea their witness. Now, standing on the terrace, her hand resting on her rounded belly, she watched moonlight dance on the waves.
Thank you, Granny, she whispered.
Inside, the chandelier tinkled softly, as if in reply.
