Nope.Not happening.
I decide to forget about the letters—ha, hilarious—and reach for another box, this one marked with a single, very confidentV.I tell myself it probably stands for victory or vanished books or something harmless.I could use a book right now.A distraction.A portal to anywhere but here.
Instead, I find vinyl.
Old, dusty, beautifully preserved records.
Of course.Lina always adored music.
And I want to inspect every single one—hold them up to the light, read the notes on the sleeves—but I am not mentally prepared to take another step into her past.Not tonight.
So I carry the box downstairs, cradling it like it might crumble.I set it on the balcony’s small coffee table.The night air carries that post–rain coolness that sits on the skin like a sigh.Lights from the neighboring buildings blur through the mist.Somewhere in this high-rise complex, people are living uncomplicated lives.Lucky them.
I step back inside for a moment and brew myself some tea.By the time I return to the balcony, mug in hand, a sound cuts through the quiet.
The strumming of a guitar.
Slow.
Tentative.
Searching.
And it’s coming from the balcony next door.
Alec.
Of course.
I choose to ignore him.Maybe if I stay on my side and he does the same I don’t have to deal with ...him.I know he’s part of my inheritance or whatever but the guy is unpredictable.He’s growling one moment and the next he’s looking at me like I’m a fragile figurine and he needs to set me in a case so I don’t break.
I’m not fucking breakable, and he has no right to look at me like I’m someone who needs protecting.
And yet ...
I do appreciate that he took charge of the whole moving-things-around situation—lifting boxes, shifting furniture, setting things where they’d be more suitable without complaint.He saved me from having to deal with my aunt’s belongings when I’m not ready.I’m grateful.
But I hated the way it felt.
Like I mattered.
Like he cared.
Like I?—
Nope.
Absolutely not.
I refuse to follow that train of thought to whatever emotionally hazardous destination it’s racing toward.
So I grab my phone and call Ariadne, who has probably assumed I stayed in Portugal out of spite or because I got lost in a vineyard somewhere.Or because I chickened out and ran from whatever my aunt left behind.
It rings twice.
“Ariadne Welsh speaking,” she chirps like she’s answering a call for her law firm instead of her best friend.
“Wow, very professional,” I mock.
