A few days later, the estate was oddly quiet, the kind of stillness that comes before a storm.
My aunt was in the main house, her movements deliberate, as if she were preparing for something significant.
Her silence was a barrier I couldn’t penetrate, and I wondered if she was as uneasy about the upcoming meeting as I was.
My mind kept drifting back to the vases.
They seemed to hold a story, one that was intertwined with the history of this place.
Yet, every attempt to discuss them with my aunt ended in the same clipped refusal.
That afternoon, I decided to take a walk around the estate.
The gardens were overgrown, a testament to years of neglect.
But in the midst of the chaos, there were glimpses of the past—an old stone bench, a weathered statue, remnants of a time when the estate was alive with laughter and conversation.
I sat on the bench, the cool stone grounding me.
The air was heavy with the scent of blooming flowers, a reminder of the beauty that once thrived here.
As I sat, I realized that the meeting would be a turning point.
The decision to sell the estate or keep it would be more than just a financial one—it would be about preserving a legacy or letting it fade into memory.
My thoughts were interrupted by the sound of footsteps.
It was my aunt, her expression unreadable.
“We need to talk about the meeting,” she said, her tone leaving no room for argument.
I nodded, bracing myself for the conversation.
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