We had no more guest the following day, although mother said that she expected some letters to come from his correspondences. It was of no surprise, because even though he was only legally dead five days ago, as far as the world was concerned he was already dead for years. I doubt mother had any idea who to send the news to, as he barely had any friend, locking himself all the time in this study. Even those who come were largely the neighbors, out of concern for my charmingly friendly mother.

The study was well-kept as usual. Not a single speck of dust was to be found, so I suspected mother made her rounds here even during the wake. She was the only one he trusted enough to take care of this sacred place of his. Not even our trusty housekeeper might take a step in (though, in a mix of foreign and familiar feeling, I realized that he had never objected me coming in. Not that I did it often. I had no reason to). Books, neatly stacked wall to wall, reaching high to the ceiling, supported by solid oak shelves that could've been sold for a fortune when we struggled to make ends meet. Documents in classic binders, all labeled in red. A solitary desk, classic solid wood to complement the shelves, full to the brim with paper scribbled with arcane equations. I wonder how much these amounted to. Perhaps it was the single most expensive room in the house, and I couldn't help but laugh.

That day, she found him here while delivering his supper: slumped in his desk with his favorite pen still in his grip (they didn't manage to pry it loose, so the trusty pen went with its master into the casket. It was just like him, unwilling to depart without making sure he would have reams of paper and something to write with as he crossed the river).

This study was the only remnant we'd had from that man.

---------------

Somewhere in the corner of that study was our family tree, extended upwards to the 14th century. I'd heard the story from mother over many summers. My great-great-great-great-great-great-great grandfather met his success in the Silk Road, and finally saved enough money to return to his hometown and started a family. From there, generations upon generations added to this building, and while age had clearly shown on the dilapidated roof and creaking tiles, for the most part our house was a sign of splendor from afar. Only from afar, because to me, it was a memento of a faded glory.

My grandparents were strict, my mother said. The family fortune had mostly ran out at this point, but they took care to provide their son with the best education money could buy. It was, in my eyes, a foresight that led to our downfall. They passed away fairly young, and left everything in the hands of their only son who had just married my mother. That man.

He kept most of the rooms as is and didn't add anything to the house. In fact, in his time, he had greatly diminished the legacy. The land and the building, while keeping us from being homeless in dire times, came with hefty inheritance tax that almost robbed us of our dismal savings. We'd sold parts of the house and kept only the main building. (Though in a way, that saved my mother great labor. Tending to an old house was tenuous.) We weren't rich enough to keep the servants, so not long after I was born they were all let go. Only an old housekeeper, swearing that her family had been around for great many years for us, held steadfastly and refused to leave my mother. She took another job to ensure we wouldn't have to pay her too much, and lived with whatever meager salary my mother could provide (most of the time though, they all went back to us, in the form of fruit baskets or threads for the new year's clothes).

I looked at a row of sepia-colored photographs lining the wall, looking down to the desk. I wondered what they, heads of the family for generations past, had to say about their last successor who'd squandered everything they'd ever had for the sake of a line of half-completed equation.