My name is Rachel. I was nineteen when my world shattered—my parents were gone, leaving me navigating grief in an empty house filled with memories of laughter, bedtime stories, and cinnamon-scented cakes. After the funeral, the weight of solitude hit me like a tidal wave.
Then came the will reading. My aunt Dina, who had barely acknowledged Mom or Dad in years, inherited the house. As I stood there, heart pounding, the law confirmed it: this was no mistake. The only home I’d ever known—gone.
She gave me one day to move out.
Tears blurred my vision as I packed my life into suitcases: photo frames, birthday decorations, even my mom’s favorite plant. Every folded shirt held a memory—the backyard bike rides, kitchen dance sessions, whispered bedtime stories. They all whispered, “This was home.”
Dragging my bags onto the front porch, I paused to take one final look at the house that held my childhood.
And that’s when it arrived.
A sleek black limousine glided to a stop in front of the familiar porch. The engine hummed, doors flew open, and a well-dressed man stepped out. He called my name.
“My Uncle Mike?” I whispered. It wasn’t a mirage—I wasn’t alone anymore.
