The Notary Office and the Hard Chair

The notary’s office was cramped and stuffy, the air heavy with the dry scent of old paper. Anna sat straight-backed on a hard chair, her palms sweating nervously. Beside her was Elena—her older sister—immaculate in a sleek business suit and flawless manicure, looking like she had come not to hear a will but to close a deal.

Elena scrolled through her phone, flicking indifferent glances at the notary, as if she had more important places to be. Anna twisted the strap of her worn handbag around her fingers. At thirty-four, she still felt like the timid little sister standing next to self-assured, successful Elena. The library job didn’t pay much, but Anna loved it—she loved the quiet order of books and the gentle rhythm of the readers’ lives.

To most people, especially Elena, it was just a “hobby,” not a profession. Elena had a high-paying job at a large company, earning in a few months what Anna made in an entire year. The notary, an elderly man with thick glasses, cleared his throat and opened the file. The room stilled. An old wall clock ticked, counting each heavy second.

Time seemed to slow. Anna heard Grandfather’s voice again, the way he used to murmur: “The most important things in life happen in silence.”

“The last will and testament of Nikolai Ivanovich Morozov,” the notary intoned, his voice echoing in the small office.

“I bequeath the two-room apartment on Tsentralnaya Street, building 27, apartment 43, together with its furnishings and household items, to my granddaughter, Elena Viktorovna.”

Elena didn’t even bother to look up—as if she had expected nothing less. Her face remained calm, unreadable. In Anna’s chest, the old ache stirred. Once again, she came second.

“…I further bequeath the house in the village of Sosnovka, with all structures, outbuildings, and a twelve-hundred-square-meter plot, to my granddaughter, Anna Viktorovna,” the notary continued, turning a page.

Anna started. The village house? The one that had been falling apart for years, where Grandfather lived alone? She barely remembered it—childhood flashes of peeling paint, a leaking roof, an overgrown yard that set her on edge.

Elena finally lifted her gaze, a faint smirk tugging at the corner of her mouth.

“Well, Anya, at least you got something. Honestly though—I have no idea what you’ll do with that junk. Tear it down and sell the plot for dachas?”

Anna said nothing. The words stuck in her throat. Why did Grandfather choose this? Did he think she didn’t deserve a real home? Tears pricked at her eyes, but she blinked them back—she wouldn’t cry in front of Elena or the stern notary whose eyes held the smallest flicker of sympathy.

He read the formal terms; Anna heard only fragments. Grandfather had been a just man. Why did this division feel like a verdict? At last, it ended. The notary passed each sister documents and keys.

Elena signed briskly, slid the keys into her elegant purse, and rose with professional poise.

“I have a client meeting,” she said, not looking at Anna. “We’ll talk later. Don’t be upset—you did get something.”

She left, trailing a thin ribbon of French perfume.

Anna remained, staring at the keys in her hand. Heavy iron, long and old-fashioned, rust at the edges—so unlike Elena’s neat, modern set. Outside, her husband Mikhail leaned on their battered car, smoking and checking his watch, annoyance etched across his face. When Anna emerged, he ground the cigarette under his heel.

“Well? What did you get?” he asked, no greeting, no softness. “Tell me it’s at least worth something.”

She told him. With every sentence, his expression darkened.

When she finished, he hit the hood with his fist.

“A village house? Are you kidding me? You botched it again! Your sister gets a downtown apartment worth at least three million, and you—some wreck!”

Anna flinched at the contempt. He hadn’t used to talk like this, but lately, money had turned him raw and mean.

“I didn’t choose,” she said, her voice shaking. “It was Grandfather’s decision.”

“And you couldn’t influence him? Show him you deserved more? Explain?” He sneered. “No… you’re always the quiet mouse. Always on the sidelines. Useless. You can’t even land a decent inheritance.”

The words cut deep. Seven years of marriage, and still he spoke as if to a stranger.

“Mikhail, please don’t shout. People are staring.”

“Maybe we can figure something out with the house,” she ventured, small and hopeful.

“Figure what? A ruin in nowhere. It’s not even worth a hundred thousand. Best bet is to tear it down and sell the land.”

He yanked open the car door, slammed it, and drove in heavy silence, muttering now and then. Anna watched the gray city slip by and thought of Grandfather—kind, taciturn Nikolai Ivanovich, tractor driver, then railway man, who had retired to Sosnovka for air and quiet. In summers long ago, he had taught her about mushrooms, led her to wild strawberries and raspberries, named birds and animals in the dusk. He had never raised his voice, never forced; he had simply been there. With him, she had felt seen.

“You’re special, granddaughter,” he’d tell her. “You see beauty where others don’t. That’s a rare gift.”

Once those words had glowed. Now they mocked. What was special about a woman her own husband called worthless?

Dinner and the Final Words

At home, Mikhail sank into the news; Anna retreated to the kitchen. As she peeled potatoes, her mind tugged at outcomes. Sell the house? But who would buy ruins at the edge of an emptying village? Sosnovka had no store, a post office that opened once a week, and youth had fled to the cities. During dinner, Mikhail kept his eyes on the TV. When she asked about the weekend, he answered with clipped syllables. Finally, he set his fork down and looked at her without softness.

“I’ve thought about it. Our marriage isn’t working.”

Her pulse lurched.

“What are you saying?”

“I need a woman who’ll help me succeed. Not someone who earns pennies in a library and inherits junk. I’m thirty-seven. I want to live well, not pinch every kopek.”

“You knew who I was when we married. I never pretended.”

“That’s the problem. I hoped you’d grow some ambition, get a real job. But you stayed a gray mouse, satisfied with scraps.”

Something gave way inside her.

“What do you suggest?”

“Divorce. I’ve already spoken to a lawyer. For now, stay with friends—or in your precious village.”

Mockery sharpened the last word. He pushed back his chair.

“Wait,” she whispered. “What about us? Seven years?”

“Seven years of mistakes,” he said, already turning away. “Elena’s right—you and I don’t match. She’s smart. Practical. Not like—”

He didn’t finish. He didn’t have to. The meaning landed cold.

“Of course… Elena.” The thought was ice. “So you chose her?”

“We’ve just been talking,” he said evenly. “Her husband’s often away; she’s lonely. And we have a lot in common. She understands me. We want the same—better.”

Better. The word rang hollow. Anna stared at the man who used to bring her flowers and promises, and saw only a stranger’s face.

“Pack your things,” he said, voice flat. “By tomorrow evening I want you out. I’ll register the apartment in my name. There won’t be any issues.”

He walked out, leaving her seated before a plate of cooling food, the silence roaring. In a single day she’d lost everything: the hope of a fair inheritance, her husband, her home. What remained was an old house in a forgotten village she hardly remembered.

That night she couldn’t sleep. She lay on the living room couch because the bedroom felt defiled, and took stock of thirty-four years: a job no one respected; a husband who left for her sister; a sister who’d always thought her small. And this house—this mystery in the wilderness.

She sifted through childhood images: the house large and a little frightening, a honey-scent of wood, old furniture that creaked, Grandfather’s tales of those who’d lived there. So long ago the edges had blurred. She drifted to the cupboard and pulled a box of photographs—Grandfather with laughing eyes, unknown relatives in stiff collars, Anna as a little girl in a sundress. She traced their faces.

“I used to love coming here,” she whispered. “When did I stop?”

She remembered: Elena always had reasons. Friends. Exams. Important things. Their parents never pushed—“She’s grown; let her decide.” Anna had stopped asking, not wanting to be a bother. Grandfather never complained. He called on holidays, asked about school. He sounded glad. But now she could hear it—the thready sadness she’d missed then.

Dusk thickened. She was so tired. She gathered a few things and went to the bedroom. The bathroom surprised her—fresh towels, soap, even a new toothbrush still wrapped.

Someone had prepared this place.

She washed, changed, and slipped into Grandfather’s bed. The linens smelled faintly of herbs; the mattress cradled her like a palm. Outside, an owl called, leaves whispered; a cat purred under the window. For the first time in months, she felt safe. No Mikhail with his scorn. No Elena with her cool assessment. No coworkers dismissing her quiet passion. Only stillness. Peace. The sense that the house had exhaled and recognized her.

“Grandfather…” she breathed into the dark. “If you can hear me—thank you. I don’t know what I’ll do, but right now this is the only place I can be myself.”

Sleep came slow and gentle. Tomorrow she would wrangle documents, decide whether to stay or sell, speak to the library, begin again. But those worries felt far away. For now, she had refuge—time to breathe and listen for the next right step. Grandfather’s house had opened its door like an old friend, and she wasn’t alone. She thought of his words—“You’re special”—and for the first time in years wondered if he’d seen something everyone else had missed. Perhaps the house itself was his answer.

“Tomorrow,” she promised. “Tomorrow I’ll understand.”

And for the first time in a long while, she sank into deep, dreamless sleep.

She woke to birdsong and gold-bright morning. Sunbeams slipped across the floor; the world felt new. She stretched and realized she was rested, truly rested—the way she never was in the city where traffic and voices and construction kept sleep thin and ragged. She crossed to the window. The village glowed: treetops gilded, dragonflies stitching light, a cow lowing from somewhere beyond the hedges.

Beyond a crooked fence lay an overgrown garden. Apple and pear trees, currant bushes, beds half-hidden under wild grass. Beneath the tangle she could make out the lines of neat paths.

“Grandfather worked his heart into this,” she thought. “And it’s been left to sleep.”

She dressed and went downstairs. The refrigerator held fresh groceries. Someone had cared. She brewed coffee, fried eggs, and ate at the window, looking out over the wild garden and feeling a small, stubborn ember of hope.

Who had stocked the kitchen? A neighbor? Had Grandfather asked someone to watch over the house? In a place like this, a housekeeper seemed unlikely, yet everything was so clean.

After breakfast, she began a careful tour. Yesterday she’d been too wrung out to notice details. In the living room, she paused before old photographs: Grandfather young and straight-backed; his parents; relatives she couldn’t place. One photo snagged her gaze—the house itself, years ago, immaculate and trimmed with flowerbeds and whitewashed paths. People in their Sunday best stood by the porch, faces open to the sun.

“It was beautiful,” Anna murmured. “And the garden… perfect.”

In a glass-front cabinet she found porcelain plates curled with blue vines, crystal glasses that caught the light, heavy silver spoons polished to a moonlit sheen. In the dresser drawers lay yellowed letters tied with ribbon, documents and papers Grandfather had kept as if the past were a book one never finished.

She circled back to the sofa and frowned. It sat at a slight angle, not quite parallel to the wall—as if someone had moved it and put it back in a hurry. One cushion lay at a different slant. She lifted it.

A white envelope waited beneath, her name looped across it in Grandfather’s careful hand:

To my beloved granddaughter, Anechka.

Her pulse galloped. The seal was old; the paper soft at the edges. With trembling fingers she opened it and unfolded the sheet inside, the familiar, old-world script unfurling like a voice.

“Dearest Anechka. If you are reading this, I am gone, and you have come to our house. I knew it would be you, not Elena. You have always been different, and I saw