Claire Whitmore never expected the reading of her father’s will to feel like a public humiliation. As relatives gathered in the musty old farmhouse, her brothers eyed the lawyer’s folders with barely contained greed. They argued over property, land, the savings account, even the battered old fishing boat that hadn’t left the shed in years. Claire stood quietly at the edge of the living room, hands clasped, heart thudding. When her name was called, the lawyer’s voice seemed almost apologetic: “The barn at the west end of the property goes to Claire.” Her brothers burst out laughing, and even some cousins hid smirks behind their hands.
For them, the barn was a joke—a rotting skeleton of wood and rust, rumored to be filled with nothing but mice and broken memories. Claire accepted the yellowed deed and heavy iron key in silence, her mind swirling. Had this really been her father’s final message to her—a last, silent slight for the child who had returned home when no one else would? Or was there something more, some secret only she was meant to understand?