The call came at 3:14 a.m.

Serena was in bed, tangled in sheets dampened by restless sleep, the muted hum of the city barely audible through her tightly shut windows. She fumbled for her phone, the harsh glow of the screen slicing through the darkness as she squinted at the number. It was unfamiliar. For a moment, she debated letting it ring—what good ever came from answering a call at this hour?—but something in her gut urged her to pick up.

“Hello?”

“Miss Hale?” The voice on the other end was clinical, practised. “I’m calling from Massachusetts General Hospital.”

The world seemed to tilt, Serena’s pulse quickening. She sat up, gripping the phone tightly. “Is it my grandmother? What happened?”

There was a pause. Just long enough for her worst fears to take root.

“I’m afraid she’s passed away.”

Serena’s breath caught in her throat. The words didn’t register at first, her mind struggling to process them.

“What?” she whispered. “How… How is that possible? I just saw her last night. She was fine.”

“She suffered a cardiac event in her sleep,” the voice explained, detached but sympathetic. “There was nothing we could do. I’m sorry for your loss.”

The rest of the conversation was a blur. Serena barely remembered hanging up, her hands trembling as the phone slipped from her grasp. For a long time, she just sat there, staring into the darkness, her chest tight and her mind racing.

Her grandmother was gone.

The thought was incomprehensible, a jagged wound cutting through her. Her grandmother had been her anchor, her family, her home. And now, in the space of a single phone call, she was… gone.

The hours that followed were a haze. Serena drifted through the motions like a ghost, arranging for time off work, fielding calls from the hospital and funeral home, and struggling to make sense of the sudden void in her life.

Grief clung to her like a heavy fog, clouding her thoughts and weighing her down. But beneath the sorrow, something else stirred—a faint, nagging doubt.

Her grandmother had always been frail, yes, but not sickly. The last time they’d spoken, she had been in good spirits, even teasing Serena about working too hard. A heart attack didn’t make sense.

And yet, the doctors were adamant: it had been a natural death.

Serena wanted to believe them. It would have been easier to believe them. But she couldn’t shake the feeling that something was wrong.

The funeral was held three days later, a small, sombre gathering at a modest chapel. Rain fell steadily outside, the soft patter of droplets against the windows blending with the quiet murmur of condolences from the handful of mourners who had come to pay their respects.

Serena stood by the casket, numb to the words of sympathy offered by distant relatives and old friends of her grandmother. She nodded politely, murmuring her thanks, but her mind was elsewhere.

When the service ended, she lingered behind, staring at the casket as if willing her grandmother to sit up, to explain, to tell her what to do now that she was alone.

But no answers came.

Later that evening, after the mourners had gone and the rain had subsided, Serena returned to her grandmother’s apartment to sort through her belongings. It was a task she had dreaded, but it needed to be done.

The apartment felt different now—quieter, emptier. The air seemed heavier, the shadows longer. She moved from room to room, packing away clothes and keepsakes, pausing occasionally to run her fingers over familiar objects: a well-worn quilt, a photo album, a stack of knitting supplies.

It wasn’t until she reached the desk in the living room that she found the envelope.

It was tucked neatly into the top drawer, the crisp white paper bearing her name in her grandmother’s delicate handwriting.

Heart pounding, Serena opened it, pulling out a single sheet of paper.

My dearest Serena,

If you’re reading this, it means I’m no longer with you. I wish I could have said goodbye properly, but life doesn’t always give us that luxury.

I want you to know how proud I am of you. You’ve grown into an extraordinary woman, capable of achieving anything you set your mind to. I have no doubt that you’ll continue to thrive, even without me.

As my final gift to you, I’ve left you something very special: the penthouse. I know it may seem sudden, but I’ve always believed it was meant for you. It’s not just a home—it’s a part of our family’s history, a legacy I hope you’ll cherish.

Take care of yourself, my love. And remember, you’re never truly alone.

With all my love,
Grandma

The words blurred as tears filled Serena’s eyes. She folded the letter carefully, her hands trembling as she slipped it back into the envelope.

The penthouse.

Serena knew of it, of course. It had been her grandmother’s before she moved into the apartment. She had rarely spoken of it, and Serena had never thought much about it, assuming it was just another relic of a bygone era.

But now, it was hers.

The next day, Serena made her way to the penthouse, a mixture of curiosity and apprehension swirling in her chest.

The building was in the heart of the city, a once-grand structure that had fallen into disrepair. Its faded facade and chipped stonework hinted at a history of wealth and prestige, but time and neglect had taken their toll.

Inside, the lobby was a shadow of its former self. The marble floors were scuffed, the chandeliers dulled by layers of dust. A weary-looking doorman nodded as she passed, barely glancing up from his crossword puzzle.

The elevator groaned as it carried her to the top floor, the metal cage rattling with every jolt. When the doors finally slid open, she stepped into a dimly lit hallway that smelled faintly of mildew and old wood.

At the end of the hall was a set of double doors.

Her doors.

Serena hesitated, the key trembling in her hand. Then, with a deep breath, she unlocked the doors and pushed them open.

The penthouse was enormous, its high ceilings and sprawling layout a stark contrast to the modest apartment she had grown up in. Dust covered the furniture and the air was stale, but beneath the neglect, she could see glimpses of its former glory: intricate moldings, ornate light fixtures, and a breathtaking view of the city skyline through floor-to-ceiling windows.

She wandered through the rooms, each one more lavish than the last. There was a library filled with floor-to-ceiling bookshelves, a grand dining room with a table large enough to seat twelve, and a master bedroom that felt more like a suite in a five-star hotel.

But as impressive as it was, there was something unsettling about the place.

The shadows seemed deeper here, the silence heavier. Every creak of the floorboards, every groan of the old pipes set her on edge. It felt as though the penthouse was watching her, its walls holding secrets she couldn’t yet see.

In the living room, she found a portrait hanging above the fireplace—a woman in her early twenties, dressed in vintage clothing, her gaze sharp and knowing. Serena stared at the painting, a chill running down her spine.

It wasn’t her grandmother, but there was something familiar about her face, something Serena couldn’t quite place.

By the time she left, the sun had dipped below the horizon, casting the city in twilight. She locked the doors behind her, the weight of the key heavy in her pocket.

As she stepped into the elevator, she couldn’t shake the feeling that the penthouse had been waiting for her.

And now, it was hers.

But at what cost?