The musty scent of the old house clung to Eleanor like a shroud. Her brother, Charles, practically bounced with anticipation, already eyeing the antique furniture and speculating on its worth. Eleanor, however, felt a dull ache in her chest, a weight she couldn't quite name. She remembered their grandmother, her wrinkled hands and soft smile, the way she used to hum in the kitchen.
They found the will tucked away in a small, velvet-lined box in the attic. Charles, ever the pragmatist, immediately started reading, his voice crisp and businesslike. Eleanor, though, couldn't bring herself to look at the words. Instead, her gaze wandered over the dust-covered portraits, each one a silent observer of their family's history.
When Charles finished, his face was flushed with a mixture of excitement and disappointment. The house and the majority of the assets were his, as per their grandmother’s wishes. A small, almost insignificant sum was left to Eleanor. She looked at Charles and saw the flush fade from his face. She watched his shoulders sag, and the gleam in his eyes diminished, as his face twisted into a look of shame.
Eleanor didn’t flinch, and she could see the guilt creeping into his heart. She said, “That’s alright. This is your life.” She smiled. “I'm happy for you, Charles.”