Two days had passed since the strange voicemail, and yet I’d done nothing about it. My daily routine had swallowed me whole, just like it always did, consuming every fleeting spark of hope or curiosity before it had a chance to grow. Each morning brought the same agonizing rhythm—wake, shower, commute, and then endure eight soul-crushing hours in a gray cubicle, under the looming shadow of Brenda Hartley.

  Today began no differently.

  The buzzing alarm jolted me awake at 6:00 AM sharp. Groaning, I rolled onto my back, staring blankly at the cracked ceiling above. My chest felt heavy, as though a weight pressed mercilessly down, pinning me to this lifeless existence.

  Dragging myself to the tiny, mold-streaked bathroom, I stepped under the weak spray of cold water that never quite warmed up. Soap ran down my skin, mingling with numbness rather than refreshing me. I glanced at my reflection in the fogged mirror afterward, barely recognizing the hollow face that stared back.

  Breakfast was always the same—dry toast and instant coffee, bitter and tasteless, consumed quickly and without satisfaction. I slipped into my usual cheap, wrinkled dress shirt and black slacks, tying a thin black tie around my neck like a noose.

  The commute was a blur, an hour of mindless silence punctuated by the jostling of other hopeless souls, eyes vacant, expressions hollow. The bus smelled like despair, cheap cologne, and stale cigarettes.

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  At 8:58 AM, I walked through the office doors, heart sinking as the familiar gray partitions closed in around me.

  “Joshua, I expect that next report on my desk by noon!” Brenda barked from across the room before I’d even sat down. Her eyes sparkled with sadistic anticipation, the stapler held menacingly in her chubby fist.

  “Yes, Ms. Hartley,” I responded dully, slipping quietly into my chair and logging into my terminal.

  The hours crawled by, a never-ending spiral of spreadsheets, emails, and meaningless phone calls. Around 11:00 AM, the executor’s voicemail from two days ago drifted back into my thoughts. After a long hesitation, I finally dialed the number.

  “Bradford and Associates, Thomas Bradford speaking,” answered a smooth, professional voice after two rings.

  “Uh, Mr. Bradford, this is Joshua...you left me a voicemail about my father’s estate?”

  “Yes, Joshua, thank you for getting back to me. As you may be aware, your father left you a property—a cottage outside town. There are some... conditions attached. I’d prefer to explain them in person. Can you come by the office tomorrow?”

  I hesitated, Brenda’s oppressive presence looming in my mind. “Tomorrow...I’m at work. Could we meet next week, perhaps?”

  There was a long pause before Bradford spoke again. “That would be fine, though I advise not delaying too long. The matter is somewhat urgent.”

  Urgent? What could be urgent about a cottage? “I’ll see what I can do,” I muttered noncommittally.

  After hanging up, I stared blankly at the phone. Curiosity tugged faintly at me—but Brenda’s shrill voice snapped me back to reality.

  “Joshua! Stop daydreaming and get me that damn report!”

  Swallowing back resentment, I resumed my task, the spark of curiosity quickly extinguished beneath the weight of duty.