My husband had spent years warning me never to set foot on that farm. So after he passed away and the lawyer handed me the key, saying that from now on the place belonged to me, I was ready to sell it right away and put everything behind me. But before making my final decision, I still wanted to see it once for myself. When the door opened, I finally understood why, all those years, he had never wanted me to set foot there.

“Good morning, Cat,” he said. “If I know you, you’ve already been through the house, looked in every cabinet, met the horses before breakfast, and probably made coffee stronger than your doctor would prefer.”

I let out a helpless sound that was almost a laugh.

“I want to show you something today,” he said, then picked up the camera and carried it down a hallway I had not yet fully explored. At the end was a closed door. “There’s a key for this in the top drawer of the silver bedside table in the master bedroom. The old one with the horse engraving. I’d like you to open it before you hear the rest of what I have to say.”

I paused the video.

The key was exactly where he said it would be.

The hallway in real life felt longer than it had on screen. Quiet. Sunlit. The door itself was plain white, almost unremarkable. I inserted the key and turned it.

When I opened it, I had to brace one hand against the frame.

An art studio.