Rain had been falling since morning when Nara sat alone in the notary's waiting room.
The sound of water striking the glass was like a long whisper that never stopped. Every so often, thunder rumbled in the distance, making several people in the room turn toward the windows.
Nara merely lowered her head.
A dark brown folder rested on her lap.
Written across the front was a name that had filled her thoughts for days.
SARI WIDYASTUTI.
Grandma Sari.
The only family member who had still kept in frequent contact with her until a few months ago.
And now, the old woman was dead.
"Miss Nara?"
A man's voice made Nara raise her head.
A man around fifty stood in front of the door. He wore a white shirt with a simple black suit.
"That's me," Nara replied softly as she stood.
"Please come in. We'll read the deceased's will."
Nara nodded.
She followed the notary into a small room.
A long table, several chairs, and a white envelope placed in the center of the table were already waiting there.
There were no other family members.
Nara wasn't surprised.
Grandma Sari had no other children who were still alive.
Nara's parents had died when she was still little.
That's why Grandma Sari had raised her.
After they sat down, the notary opened the documents in front of him.
"The deceased, Sari Widyastuti, left behind several assets."
He began to read.
Savings.
Jewelry.
Several land documents.
Then the notary's voice stopped.
"And a house."
Nara frowned.
"A house?"
"Yes."
The notary took a photograph from the folder.
He pushed it toward Nara.
Nara stared at the photograph.
Her expression changed instantly.
The house stood in the middle of a vast property, surrounded by old trees. It was a large, two-story building with faded white walls and tall windows.
Moss covered the roof.
The iron gate in front looked rusted.
The house looked as though it had been abandoned for a long time.
But something made Nara's chest feel tight.
She knew it.
Not merely because she had seen it before.
She had been there.
She didn't know when.
She didn't know how.
"I... I've seen this house before."
The notary looked at her.
"The deceased did live there."
Nara slowly shook her head.
"That's not it. I feel like I came there when I was little."
The notary didn't answer.
He only took a key from the desk drawer.
The key was long and brownish black.
A small tag shaped like a number hung from it.
12.
"This is the key to the house."
Nara accepted it.
It was cold.
Freezing cold.
Even though it had been inside a warm room.
Then the notary handed her another envelope.
"This is a personal message from Grandma Sari. She asked me to give you this envelope when the will was read."
Nara opened the envelope with trembling hands.
Inside was only a single sheet of paper.
Grandma Sari's handwriting filled the middle of the page.
Nara recognized it immediately.
> Nara, if you receive this house, never sell it.
She read the next line.
> And don't ever fix it, either.
Nara's breath caught.
Then the final sentence made her eyes freeze in place.
> And most importantly, never count how many rooms it has.
Nara read the sentence again.
Then again.
"Why?" she asked without realizing it.
The notary looked at her, his expression unreadable.
"I don't know."
"Did Grandma ever explain?"
"No."
Nara folded the letter.
But as she was about to put it back into the envelope, something fell from behind the paper.
A small photograph.
An old photograph.
A little girl stood in front of the same house.
Nara recognized the girl.
Herself.
Grandma Sari stood beside her.
But one thing made the blood in Nara's veins turn to ice.
Behind them, precisely on the second floor of the house...
stood another little girl.
Her face was pale.
Her hair was long.
And her eyes stared straight at the camera.
Nara turned the photograph over.
There was Grandma Sari's handwriting on the back.
> "Don't let her know you've come back."
Nara stared silently at the writing.
Outside, thunder boomed.
For the first time since her grandmother's death, Nara felt that perhaps...
Grandma Sari hadn't been giving her an inheritance.
She had been giving her a warning.