The days after visiting the executor’s office were a haze of worry and restless planning. Losing my job had left me financially fragile, with only a thousand dollars left in my account, barely enough to survive more than a month in the expensive urban jungle I called home. The thought gnawed relentlessly at me, pushing sleep further out of reach and amplifying the weight of anxiety on my chest.

  Determined to face the reality of my inheritance and perhaps secure a temporary refuge from my current despair, I decided to visit the cottage left by my father. Early the next morning, dressed in the cleanest clothes I could find—a slightly less wrinkled shirt and worn jeans—I made my way through bustling city streets toward the bus station. Without a car, the journey was long, fragmented by crowded buses and transfers, each leg of the journey amplifying my growing apprehension.

  The final bus dropped me off near the outskirts of town. Here, the city’s glossy modernity faded into sparse suburbs and eventually countryside. The narrow road toward my father’s cottage stretched ahead, flanked by trees whose branches intertwined ominously overhead, casting eerie shadows across the cracked pavement. My footsteps slowed instinctively, apprehension tightening in my stomach.

  Soon, the cottage appeared, nestled behind overgrown bushes and wild grasses. Its sight struck me immediately with a sense of profound melancholy. The small structure was dilapidated, its wooden porch sagging under years of neglect, boards warped and splintered, rotten in places, barely capable of holding my weight. Paint peeled from walls in great sheets, exposing gray, weathered wood beneath.

  Steeling myself, I cautiously stepped onto the porch, each creaking board amplifying my sense of unease. The front door stood ajar, its hinges rusted, paint flaking off like dried skin. Reaching out, my hand trembled slightly as I pushed it open further, the door groaning mournfully, echoing the sadness that filled my chest.

  Inside, the air was heavy with a scent of earth, mold, and decay, immediately assaulting my senses. The dim light filtering through grimy windows illuminated the neglected interior: faded wallpaper, worn furniture covered in dust-laden sheets, and cobwebs stretching between fixtures like ghostly curtains. Each step stirred the stale air, making breathing difficult, a sense of suffocation growing rapidly.

  As my eyes adjusted, something caught my attention, arresting my breath in my throat. Opposite the entrance, just off the living room, stood an imposing, burnished copper door unlike anything else in the cottage. Its polished surface gleamed faintly, even in the dimness, casting a strange glow across the room. Intricate carvings covered its entirety, depicting a cityscape in ruins, buildings toppled, streets cracked, and skies torn asunder—a scene of total devastation rendered hauntingly beautiful.

  My pulse quickened, heart pounding almost painfully within my chest. I found myself rooted to the spot, anxiety tightening its grip around me, a cold sweat forming on my brow. Memories of my father surged forward, bringing a rush of grief and overwhelming loss. Tears stung the corners of my eyes as I recalled his distant yet protective presence, the countless mysteries he had always kept hidden from me.

  The door stood silently, radiating menace and mystery. My father’s strict warning echoed loudly in my mind, intensifying the turmoil within me. Despite the almost irresistible pull of curiosity, I forced myself to remain distant, reminding myself firmly of the warning I had been given.

  Shaking myself from the unsettling trance, I turned away, anxiety still pulsing sharply through me. I busied myself inspecting other parts of the cottage, assessing whether it could be livable enough to offer respite from my decaying apartment. The bedroom was sparse, containing only a dusty mattress and worn dresser. The small kitchen appeared functional enough beneath layers of dust and grime. There was potential here, yet the oppressive atmosphere and lingering threat of the copper door remained ever-present in my thoughts.

  Determined to focus on the practicalities of survival, I pushed aside the unsettling allure of the mysterious door, concentrating instead on my more pressing reality—finding employment and securing stable shelter. Returning to the city felt inevitable, necessary even, despite my loathing for its relentless chaos. The grim reality of my finances left no room for hesitation.

  This narrative has been unlawfully taken from Royal Road. If you see it on Amazon, please report it.

  Leaving the cottage felt strangely comforting yet disturbingly incomplete, the haunting image of the copper door etched deeply in my mind, waiting ominously for my inevitable return. As I made my way back toward the crowded streets and oppressive skyscrapers of the city, I couldn’t shake the anxiety nestled deeply within me, knowing this brief respite would soon be eclipsed by the harsh demands of survival. With just a thousand dollars left to my name and my future uncertain, the path forward felt as shadowed and fraught as the mysterious basement door I’d left unopened.

  Stepping back onto the cracked pavement leading away from the cottage, I felt an immediate release of tension, as if the oppressive force emanating from that burnished copper door had momentarily loosened its grip. My breathing steadied somewhat, each inhalation filling my lungs with clearer air, less burdened by rot and the heavy weight of familial secrecy.

  The long walk back to the bus stop offered ample time for reflection, but my thoughts were scattered, darting anxiously between the practical matters of immediate survival and the unsettling mysteries I’d just encountered. The gravity of my financial situation loomed large, overshadowing even the bizarre inheritance. My savings, a mere thousand dollars, felt pathetically insufficient against the looming bills and rent obligations that relentlessly marched toward me.

  On the bus ride back into the city, I stared out the grimy window, observing with detachment as rural scenes transitioned into urban sprawl. Buildings grew taller, streets more crowded, the noise and chaos gradually drowning out any residual peace I’d found momentarily at the cottage. As the city closed around me, anxiety mounted once again, tightening around my throat, strangling my thoughts with relentless worry.

  Back in my apartment, reality crashed upon me heavily. The walls seemed closer, the room darker and more confining than ever. I sat at the cramped kitchen table, leafing through scattered job advertisements and classifieds with a sinking heart. Positions were either out of my reach, requiring skills or qualifications I lacked, or they paid barely enough to sustain a life that was already feeling increasingly unsustainable.

  My laptop, old and sluggish, offered no encouragement as I scrolled through job listings online. I applied mechanically, crafting half-hearted resumes and generic cover letters, desperation evident in every keystroke. Hours slipped by unnoticed, daylight fading into evening, the shadows creeping steadily back into my tiny space, mirroring my darkening mood.

  Dinner was a muted affair—another microwaved meal eaten without enthusiasm. The television flickered in the background, but my thoughts were elsewhere, caught in a loop between worries of homelessness and the disturbing allure of my mysterious inheritance. Each bite was tasteless, swallowed mechanically, the ritual serving only to emphasize my deepening sense of isolation and defeat.

  As the evening deepened into night, the silence grew louder, filling every corner of the apartment, amplifying my anxiety. The city outside, usually buzzing with activity, seemed distant and detached, leaving me isolated in my personal darkness. Sleep remained elusive, my mind spinning restlessly between imagined job interviews, harsh rejections, and vivid recollections of the unsettling copper door.

  The following morning offered little respite. The same dreary routine unfolded predictably: tasteless coffee, dry toast, another endless cycle of job applications and pointless phone calls. Each rejection chipped away at the fragile hope I’d managed to preserve, intensifying my anxiety and self-doubt.

  Days passed in an endless, monotonous blur of fear and uncertainty, punctuated only by occasional bursts of panic as bills arrived, each one more urgent than the last. The copper door, ever-present in my thoughts, remained a haunting reminder of mysteries and dangers that lay just beyond my current troubles.

  A week into unemployment, desperation had fully taken hold. Every waking hour was consumed by worry, every sleeping moment plagued by nightmares of failure and loss. Each passing day brought me closer to the edge of collapse, the thin thread of my resolve fraying dangerously.

  Yet, beneath it all, the image of the mysterious door persisted, growing steadily in strength. The intrigue surrounding its intricate carvings, the burned-out city landscape etched deeply into copper, whispered insistently at the edges of my consciousness, promising answers, and perhaps, an escape from my dismal existence.

  Eventually, I knew, I would have no choice but to return, to face whatever lay beyond the threshold that had remained locked for generations. But for now, survival demanded all my attention, and the door would remain a silent sentinel, waiting patiently for my inevitable return.