The silen the courtroom shattered the moment my father-in-w saw me. His face, already flushed with anger, darkened further when his eyes nded on me. He surged to his feet, his chair screeg against the polished floor.

  “You gold-digging bastard!” he spat, jabbing a fi me. “You robbed us! Stole what was rightfully ours—Sophie’s money, our money!” His voied through the courtroom. pt twisted his features. “And you killed her!”

  A murmur spread through the spectators, his accusation hanging like a guillotine ready to fall.

  I stood still, jaw ched, refusing to look away. Nothing I said would ge his mind. It never had before.

  His lip curled in disgust. “White trash,” he sneered, shaking his head. “An orphan nobody wahen, and nobody wants now.”

  The words shouldn’t have hurt. They were old wounds, after all. But they still did. The courtroom faded away for a sed, swallowed by the past I’d tried to leave behind. I exhaled slowly, shoulders squared, brag for whatever came .

  Their wyer argued that the trust fund, a key part of my mother-in-w’s family legacy, should remain within the family aransferred to her. He also insisted that my wife’s jewelry—priceless heirlooms passed down feihtfully beloo them.

  My wyer tered with my wife’s will and, uedly, a letter she wrote after one of their visits. I didn’t even know it existed.

  “ I see it, please?” I said, my voice tight.

  To Whom It May ,

  I write this with a heavy heart, but there are truths that must be aowledged—both for the record and for my own peaind.

  My parents were he loving, supportive figures they should have been. I never felt warmth from them, only expectation. My achievements were theirs to cim—proof of their supposed superiority. “Of course, she excels; that’s thanks to my genes and iment.” Or, “No surprise she draws well—that’s my talent at work. Though she’ll never match me.” Yet, every failure, every misstep, was mine alone. A personal disappoi. A mistake they regretted bringing into the world.

  They trolled every aspey life for their be. Friendships were dictated by what they could gain. I was not allowed to associate with certain children because “their parents have nothing to offer.” But I was expected to build retionships with those whose families had influence—a father with a medical equipment pany, a mother chairing a charity ittee they wished to impress. I was never a daughter to them, just an asset, aension of their ambitions.

  When I was diagnosed with cer, I told them—perhaps foolishly hoping for some sign of care. None came. My father’s first response was, “Who is the beneficiary of your life insurance?” My mother’s was, “Make sure you pass on yrandmothers’ jewelry to me before you die.” When I chose to stop chemotherapy, my father simply said, “Good. The treatment is a waste of money.”

  In my final months, they visited regurly—not to chee, not to offer fort, but to demand that I ge the beneficiary of my life insurao my father, give the jewelry to my mother, and leave them the trust fund in my will. When I refused, as always, they called me a mistake and the greatest disappoi of their lives.

  I do not write this for sympathy, only for crity. Under no circumstances do I want my parents to i anything from me. I know them well enough to be certain they will challenge my will, seeking to take whatever they . I state, in no uain terms, that they are to receive nothing. Money is the only thing that has ever mattered to them, and it is the ohing they will not get from me.

  Everything I have, I leave to my husband, John Rue. From the mome, he brought warmth, ughter, and love into my life. He was my home, my sense of belonging. My only regret is that I ot give him more iurn for all that he has given me.

  Thank you for respeg my final wishes.

  With deepest gratitude,Sophia Angelina Rue

  Her handwriting was so weak and shaky—written in her final days. Seeing it was aional blow—a whisper from the grave, an echo of her st moments that crushed me us weight. It had been eleven months, two weeks, and four days since her death, and my ret experiences had jolted me out of grief. I thought I was gettier. I wasn’t. Not even close. This letter unleashed a flood of pain I thought I had overe, drowning me all ain.

  The room closed in ohe walls pressed inward. I sat there, numb, my hands shaking as I gripped the letter. Each word was a dagger cutting through the fragile sy healing. Swallowing did nothing. The lump in my throat only grew, a boulder lodged in my windpipe.

  The judge’s voice ed, distant, like a ripple breaking the surface of a dark ke. Sound ed, words slipped past me, meaningless. Grief coiled around my ribs, cold and uing, tightening with every breath. For a moment, the courtroom faded, repced by the hospital room—her frail hand in mihe light in her eyes dimming with every passing sed, until it went out. An invisible fist stricted around my heart, and I rubbed my chest. The pce had healed, but I suspected it might grow sain.

  My mind was a whirlwind of memories, each a shard of gss, tearing old wounds open. I saw her face, pale and frail, her eyes pleading with me to keep my promise. Her weak, shaky handwriting danced before my eyes, a testament to her suffering, and a reminder of the love she had for me.

  My posure unraveled, threads pulling loose, leaving me exposed. My breathing became shallow, my chest tightening as if bound by iron bands. I could feel the hot sting of tears welling up, but they refused to fall, trapped behind a dam of grief a.

  My body betrayed me, slumping forward. My shoulders hunched, and my hands shook untrolbly. I bit my torying to stop the sobs that threateo break free. Each breath was a struggle, each heartbeat a painful reminder. As the judge’s words tio echo around me, I feared I would ruly escape from this grief, that her suffering would forever stay etched into the very core of my soul.

  The gavel struck, the finality of the sound echoed through the courtroom. “The court rules in favor of the defendant,” the judge decred.

  My wyer exhaled sharply, tension draining from his shoulders. “It’s over,” he murmured, leaning toward me. “They don’t have a case. The judge even advised against an appeal.”

  I nodded, but the words barely sank in. Over? The weight I had carried for months should have lifted, yet my chest felt hollow. The relief I had expected was o be found.

  Across the courtroom, my father-in-w’s face darkened, his lips twisted in fury. My mother-in-w looked as if she had swallowed gss. They had lost. They k.Ahe victory felt empty.

  After the hearing, I drove to the cemetery, barely registering the trip. My feet carried me forward on instinct alone. Gravel ched under my boots, loud in the quiet. I lowered myself beside Sophie’s headstone, firag the engraved letters of her he air smelled of damp soil and fading flowers, a st that had bee familiar.

  I didn’t speak. Just sat there, staring at the grass—at nothing. At everything. Spent time with her. Head resting against the headstone.

  I hought much about life after death. But if it existed, I hoped she was somewhere beautiful, full of warmth and light, surrounded by the love she deserved.

  The day, I got angry. Not just angry—pissed. Rage burhrough me, twisting in my gut like a live wire. My hands itched to do something—punch, break, destroy—anything to let it out. A metallic taste coated my tongue, and my pulse hammered in my ears, each beat another k in my trol.

  How could they? How could they see her as nothing more than a possession when she was young and a payday when she was dying? The audacity, the sheer heartlessness, made my blood boil.

  Sophie was amazing—full of life and optimism. She loved people, truly listened, and never just waited for her turn to talk. It always amazed me how she remembered every patient’s and parents’ names. She cried for the sid celebrated each child who recovered. Her sense of humor was amazing— wicked and sharp. And she fought to the very end. Yet these monsters, these so-called parents, had the gall to see her as nothing more than an asset, a tool for their gain.

  My fists ched, knuckles going white, veins standing out like cables. My teeth ground together, jaw ag from the force. Vivid, violent images fshed through my mind—I wao tear them apart, squeeze their heads until they popped, and watch their smug, greedy faces twist in fear and pain. Wao burn their house to the ground, let the fmes swallow everything they cared about.

  It wouldn’t bring her back or erase what they did. But God, I wao hurt them so badly.

  Anger ed me, a firestorm demanding release. I paced the room, uo sit still, my body trembling with the iy of my emotions. I wao kick, smash things, and unleash my fury on the world.

  It took me a few days to cool down a my head straight. Though still simmerih the surface, the rage had settled into cold, hard embers. Although angry, I maintained my self-trol. Instead, I eled that anger into purpose, into a steely resolve to honor her memory and ehose whed her paid for their cruelty. I would punish them, I vowed.

  I put my house on the market a with the trust fund wyer. Instead of monthly installments, I found out I could receive all the mo once. Without hesitation, I sighe papers right then and there.

  Letting go of our shared belongings was a heart-wreng process. I kept my clothes, personal items, photos, and souvenirs from our life together. I dohe rest in her memory; she always loved helping people. Each time I felt myself wavering, wanting to hold on to things and not let go, I repeated aloud the promise I made to her—to live in the present.

  While I waited for my house to sell, I flew all over the US, ada, and South America to visit the Gates.

  I had a big surprise in Geia—the Gate was on an army base.

  Yeah, not going there.

  Illinois—another army base. Both Gates in Texas? Same.

  Frowning, I tapped my pen against the notebook. Geia, Illinois, Texas… all military-trolled. One? Might be a ce. Two? Bad luck. But four? No way it was random.

  My fiightened around the edge of the table. The US knew about the Gates. Hell, they’d probably known for years. And if they were log down access, that meant ohing—if they found out about me, I wouldn’t be a Traveler. I’d be a b rat.

  I went through the rest of the US locatio were on army bases, two were in Native Ameri reserves, and only one— in Aska—was accessible.

  Travelers Gate #468217241Destination: LumisStatus: IedMana level: 32Threat level: Moderate

  A magical world. Except for the higher threat level, it sounded good, but I wanted Shimoor. I wanted boooriiing.

  Both Gates in ada were accessible, but the first one was only accessible by floatp also led to Lumis, and the number was secutive.

  Curious.

  Level up+1 to all Traits, +5 free points, +1 ability pointCss: Gate Traveler Level 2Free points: 5Ability points: 1Gates to level (0/5)

  Yes!

  I added the stat points to stitution. It was my lowest stat, and I wao be sturdier. The Gate in ada also led to Lumis.

  I flew to South America. Three of the ten Gates marked on the map were inaccessible: one in an area trolled by a drug cartel, one in a big industrial park with people around day and night, and one on private property.

  Anate y broken—a boulder and a heap of gravel blocked the way. When I approached, I got a strong sense of danger. It was almost like a repelling force. I knew, without a shadow of a doubt, that if I tried to cross, I’d be torn to shreds.

  The other six were accessible, leading to two different pces—both soueological, with no mana levels, and teology rated Medium and Medium-low. But the other side of the Gate felt wrong. The moment I crossed, I got a sensation like I didn’t belong, like my body rejected the very air. That was enough to make me jump back to Earth immediately.

  After fates:

  Level up+1 to all Traits, +5 free points, +1 ability pointCss: Gate Traveler Level 3Free points: 5Ability points: 2Gates to level (0/8)

  To handle shocks better, I dumped my free stats intth—I was sick of hyperventiting every time something caught me off guard.

  The effect was... immediate.

  Grabbing a door handle, I twisted like normal—and it snapped off in my hand. I stared at the broken piece, dumbfounded.

  I’d felt the difference when I first boosted Perception, but not much since. One point at a time barely registered. But I sure noticed a sudden jump of five.

  For the few days, I handled everything like a raw egg, careful not to crush it. Every movement was deliberate, every grip cautious, until I finally adjusted. Thank God I didn’t break anything else.

  Someone made an offer on my house—less than its market value. I stared at the number for a while, fingers h over the email. A year ago, I would’ve fought for more and argued over every dolr. Now? I didn’t care. The only thing I could think of was getting off this cursed p and going somewhere else.

  I picked up the phone. "Accept it," I told the realtor.

  Selling the house was aep forward, aie severed. But as I hung up, I had a nagging thought—I wasn’t just leaving the bad behind. I was letting go of the good, too.

  I opted not to travel to the other far-off Gates and, instead, to limit my visits to those in Europe. I just wao get all the money, buy everything else I might need, “farm” some more skill points, and leave. Still feeling down after the court hearing, I was tired of this pd wao leave it behind as soon as possible.

  After an online search, I found some more uping one-day workshops and made a list:

  Pottery Wheel Throwing CssTerrarium WorkshopIkebana CssCraft Cocktail Making CssBonsai Tree CssDIY Perfume CssFrench Croissant Baking CssYoga CssSalsa: Beginners CssGraffiti Lessotending all the workshops and csses, I gained an additional ten ability points. I allocated one fuitar Pying and saved the rest.

  While sidering what else t, I delved into more World Information and Archive entries. Although ched the humor of the first, reading outsider perspectives about the world I knew remained intriguing. Oraveler raved about boxer briefs and bought 50 to take with him; it made me ugh, but I bought 100. I also picked up extra clothing, footwear, and armored leather biker gear for prote. By t pawn shops within a 100-mile radius, I accumuted more jewelry.

  I searched for a meical solution t music with me, but unfortunately couldn’t find ohere were meical turntables that could py vinyl records, but the ohat still worked were very popur with collectors, and I couldn’t find one for sale. Instead, I went to music stores and bought every avaible sheet musigbook for the guitar. In addition, I visited many bookstores to load up on reading material and knowledge books on every subject: math, engineering, medie, chemistry, and much more. Eventually, I would build my new home somewhere and might his knowledge.

  Finally, my house sold. I paid off the me and collected the rest of the mohe cars we, and with that, I started my final shopping spree. St food as-is in my Ste didn’t sit right with me. After testing it with a cup of coffee—and finding it still piping hot after two months—I khings would stay fresh indefinitely. But somehow, it still felt wrong.

  After buying 50 ercial chest coolers, I filled them with id started visiting stores. First, fifteen different butchers—ed them out. , fish shops–the same. Now, fresh eggs—I might have created a she.

  I ed out the delis, then moved on to fruits aables. That’s whehought struck me—I had no idea what would be avaible in fantasy nd, and I wasn’t about to spend the rest of my life without tomatoes, coffee, or chocote. I stopped by every nursery in the area and grabbed every seed variety they had—who knew what I’d miss most?

  Then came the absolute essentials: coffee and tea—and, obviously, more coffee. Two hundred pounds ter, I figured I was set. Maybe it was excessive, but I had no iion of finding myself coffeeless.

  My shopping list included dairy products, various spices, salt, rice, rge quantities of pasta, an assortment of dies, cooking and mp oil, and copious amounts of white and brown sugar. I visited every bakery I could find and bought baked goods and bread, bread, bread.

  , alcohol. I stocked up on whiskey, bourbon, and wine barrels—they’d look less suspicious. Then I cleared out three liquor stores of beer and spirits. I wasn’t much of a drinker, but I khe value of a good social lubrit. Alcohol was an excellent icebreaker.

  was water. Sure, I had the Purify spell, but I preferred the venience of bottled water. Just in case, I also bought ten of the rgest raianks I could find, each with a tap, and filled them to the brim.

  All my coolers were packed, and I had giant boxes of everything else. Naturally, I stocked up on toilet paper (I don’t like leaves), along with shampoo, soap, shaving cream, razors, aergent. Sure, I had the spell, but better safe than sorry.

  My ste looked full. I didn’t believe I could fill 512 cubic meters of space, but I managed big time. I spent another ability point to house the rest of my money—no point in leaving it behind. Now, I had 1,728 cubic meters.

  Challenge accepted.

  My pn was to drive betweees in Europe, making stops at supermarkets to stock up and visit pawn shops and gaming stores for jewelry and copper s.

  I felt ready. Just o thing to do …