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.

Joshua and I had lived carefully. Comfortably, yes, but carefully. He had been an engineer, methodical to the core, and I had spent decades teaching literature to sixteen-year-olds who believed Shakespeare existed to ruin their afternoons. We had saved. We had planned. We had paid off our mortgage and helped Jenna through college. But we were not the kind of people who secretly bought foreign property on a whim.

“What property?”

“It is called Maple Creek Farm.”

The name landed in the room like an object dropped from a great height.

I stared at the key in my palm. Heavy. Cold. Real.

“The farm,” I said, though I had not meant to speak aloud.

Mr. Winters adjusted his glasses. “You knew of it?”

“I knew it existed. Or existed once. It was his childhood home.” My voice came out distant, detached, as if someone else were answering. “He told me almost nothing about it except that I was never to go there.”

Mr. Winters hesitated, and I could tell there was more.

“What?” I asked.