The air was thick with tension, so palpable you could touch it. Olga felt it growing with every heartbeat, tightening her chest. The notary’s office was stuffy, smelling of old paper and something musty, as if only shadows of the past lingered here. The lawyer, a gaunt man in a formal suit, cleared his throat, adjusted his glasses, and began reading the will of Maria Stepanovna, their grandmother.
Anton, Olga’s older brother, sat beside her, lounging in his chair with a smug smile. He had always been their grandmother’s favorite, a successful businessman living in the capital. Olga, on the other hand, seemed like a shadow in his presence—quiet, modest, working as a librarian. She always felt undervalued, as if her existence was merely a backdrop to her brother’s vibrant life.
“The apartment at the address… I bequeath to my grandson, Anton Sergeyevich,” the lawyer’s voice was monotonous, like he was reading a verdict.
Anton raised an eyebrow triumphantly, casting a fleeting, almost contemptuous glance at Olga. She tried to stay calm, though inside she was seething. She knew her grandmother loved Anton, but she still hoped for some semblance of fairness.
“And the house, located in the village of Zarechye, along with all its outbuildings and land… I bequeath to my granddaughter, Olga Sergeyevna.”
Olga felt the blood drain from her face. Zarechye? An old, crumbling house she barely remembered? She had only been there as a young child. It must be a mistake, a misunderstanding. What was she supposed to do with a falling-apart house?
Anton burst out laughing. “Well, Olga, at least you got something. You shouldn’t have expected anything worthwhile from Grandma. What are you going to do with that junk? Chop firewood?”
Olga stayed silent, unable to find words. Resentment choked her like a snake. She felt humiliated and insulted. Why had her grandmother done this? Did she really think Olga was so worthless that all she deserved was an old house in a remote village?
After the will was read, everything happened quickly. Anton, pleased with himself, hurried off, tossing over his shoulder, “Don’t forget to sell that wreck, or the taxes will eat you alive.” The lawyer handed Olga the documents and keys to the house. She left the office in a daze.
Outside, her husband, Igor, was waiting. He looked grim and irritated. “So, what happened?” he asked, not even bothering to greet her.
Olga told him about the will. Igor listened, his frown deepening. When she finished, he exploded. “A house in the village? Are you serious, Olga? Can you do anything useful for once? You’re always causing problems. A capital apartment, that’s a real opportunity. And you? You got some trash. You’re just unlucky. A total failure.”
Igor’s words cut deeper than Anton’s mockery. She had always tried to be a good wife, supporting him in everything, but he never appreciated her, always criticizing her for being weak and not earning enough.
“Igor, please…” she tried to defend herself, but he cut her off.
“Enough! I’m tired of you and your uselessness. Pack your things and get out. I’m done carrying you.”
Olga felt her world collapse. She was alone. No money, no support, just the keys to an old house in a remote village. Tears welled up, but she held them back. She wouldn’t let him see her weakness. Packing her belongings, Olga left the apartment she and Igor had rented together. She didn’t know where to go or what to do. One thought consumed her: get as far away as possible from this deceit, this betrayal. Without much thought, she bought a bus ticket to Zarechye.
The journey was long and exhausting. The bus rattled over potholes, gray landscapes flashing by outside. When the bus reached Zarechye, dusk was falling. The village greeted her with silence and desolation. The houses were crooked, their paint peeling. Time seemed to have stopped here. In the distance, she saw the old house, surrounded by an overgrown garden. It looked grim and unwelcoming, gray, weathered, abandoned by all.
Dragging her suitcase, Olga trudged toward the house, her heart pounding anxiously. What awaited her in this old house? Could she find any meaning in life here?
She slowly circled the house. From the outside, it looked like a sad ghost of the past. Peeling paint, sagging shutters, an overgrown yard—everything screamed of decay. She expected the inside to be just as dismal, but to her surprise, the house was clean and tidy, as if someone had been maintaining it. There was no sense of neglect; rather, it felt like the house was simply waiting.
The room smelled of dust and old wood, but not dampness. The furniture, though old, was sturdy and well-kept. Yellowed photographs hung on the walls, framing faces of people Olga had never seen. As she explored, Olga noticed a small storage closet in the far corner. The door was tightly shut, blending almost seamlessly with the wall. It took effort to shift the rusted lock. The creak of old hinges echoed through the house.
Behind the door wasn’t just a closet; it was a room filled with books. Shelves stretched from floor to ceiling, packed with volumes of all sizes and colors. The room was so cleverly hidden it could easily be mistaken for an ordinary pantry. Olga froze at the threshold, stunned. She had no idea her grandmother had a library, let alone one this vast. She had always pictured her grandmother as a simple village woman, but this library spoke of something else: intelligence, education, and a passion for knowledge.
She stepped inside and ran her hand along the spines. The scent of ancient books was intoxicating. Some books were in Russian, others in foreign languages. She recognized French and German and was surprised to find several volumes in Latin and ancient Greek. She picked up a leather-bound book and opened it. The pages were yellowed with age, but the text was clear. It was a historical book, printed in the 15th century.
Olga spent hours in the library, wondering how her grandmother had amassed such a collection. She sensed that this library wasn’t just a collection of books; it was part of her heritage, a key to understanding her family and herself.
Eager to learn more, Olga continued exploring. The basement was large and dry. In a corner, she spotted something covered with an old tarp. Beneath it was an old metal safe. Olga tried to open it but failed. Then a thought struck her: her grandmother always remembered the birthdays of all her grandchildren. It was her little quirk. Olga decided to try her own birth date. She entered the numbers and heard a click. The safe opened.
Inside were old letters, photographs, documents, and notebooks, all neatly arranged. Olga’s heart raced. She started with the letters. From her grandmother’s words, Olga learned about her true role in the family as the spiritual heir. Her grandmother explained why Anton received the apartment: he was distant from the family and didn’t value it. The documents confirmed that some of the books held cultural and monetary value. Among the archives were photos of young Olga with her grandmother, moments of closeness, trust, and love. For the first time in a long while, Olga’s tears weren’t from resentment but from realization.
With trembling hands, Olga unfolded the first sheet of yellowed paper. Hello, my dear Olenka, my beloved granddaughter. If you’re reading this letter, I’m already far away, and you’re probably wondering why things turned out the way they did. Why did Anton get the big apartment, and you got the old house?
Olga froze. Her grandmother seemed to read her thoughts. Tears welled up, but she held them back, eagerly absorbing every word.
Believe me, the decision wasn’t easy. But over time, I realized that fairness is relative, and true inheritance isn’t money or property; it’s memory, history, and a connection to your roots. Anton has always been detached from family values. He cares only for material wealth. The apartment will give him the start he needs. But you, Olenka, you’re different. You’ve always been closer to the earth, to nature, to history. I saw in you that spark, that love for what’s ours.
Olga swallowed the lump in her throat. She did remember those evenings when her grandmother read her fairy tales and stories from ancient books. She recalled the smell of old paper, the warmth of her grandmother’s hands.
The house in Zarechye isn’t just an old building, her grandmother went on. It’s a symbol of our family, our history, our roots. The library you found is my pride and my pain. I collected these books my entire life, dreaming they’d end up with someone who could appreciate their true value. I know you can do that, Olenka. You’ll feel their soul.
In the next letter, her grandmother detailed where to find documents proving the books’ value. Gradually, Olga grasped the magnitude of her inheritance. This wasn’t just a collection of old books; it was a true treasure trove of immense cultural and historical value. And it was now hers.
But the photographs touched her most deeply. In an old album, she found countless images of herself as a young girl with her grandmother. In one photo, Olga, at about five years old, sat on her grandmother’s lap, listening intently as she read a fairy tale, her face filled with wonder, her grandmother’s with tenderness and care.
At that moment, Olga broke down. She couldn’t hold back the tears any longer. They streamed down her cheeks, washing away the resentment, disappointment, and insecurity. These weren’t tears of despair but of realization—realizing she wasn’t alone, that she had roots, a family, a grandmother who loved her and believed in her. She understood that her grandmother hadn’t just left her a house and a library; she had left her love, wisdom, and faith.
Olga made a firm decision. She wouldn’t sell the house. She would stay in Zarechye, breathe life into the old walls, and restore the house to its former glory. Her first step was finding a restorer. An elderly woman named Agafia recommended a craftsman from a neighboring village. “Ivan,” she praised, “has golden hands.”
Ivan was a man of few words but knew his craft. “There’s a lot of work,” he said after inspecting the house, “but the house is solid. It’ll stand for years.”
Next, Olga tackled the library’s appraisal. She contacted experts online and sent photos of the most intriguing volumes. A response came surprisingly quickly. One shop offered to send an expert.
The expert, a young man named Kirill, arrived two days later. He carefully examined the library. “You have a real treasure here,” he said, smiling. “Some of these books are unique.” He pointed to an old leather-bound book with a crest. “In this condition, it’s extremely rare.”
“How much could it be worth?” Olga dared to ask.
Kirill paused. “It’s hard to say exactly, but I’d estimate no less than a three-bedroom apartment in the capital.”
Olga’s heart raced. One book. How many more were in the library?
That evening, her phone rang. It was Anton. “Hey, Olga,” she heard his voice. “How’s it going out there in the sticks?”
“Everything’s fine, Anton,” Olga replied calmly. “How’s your apartment?”
“It’s fine,” Anton said evasively. “Listen, I was thinking, maybe we got upset over the inheritance for no reason. What if we swapped? You give me the house, and I’ll give you the apartment.”
Olga smirked. “You know, Anton, I’ve been thinking a lot, too. And I’ve decided I’m happy with what I have. I like the house.”
“But there’s nothing there,” Anton protested. “It’s just a wreck.”
“It has something far more valuable than any apartment,” Olga replied. “Memory, history. And I’m not trading that for anything.”
Silence hung on the line. “Well, suit yourself,” he muttered finally. “Don’t come crying to me later.”
“I won’t,” Olga said firmly and hung up.
She looked out the window. The house was quiet and cozy. Logs crackled in the fireplace. Olga felt a new, unfamiliar sensation: inner freedom, confidence, pride in herself and her family. She was the master of her fate, her house, her inheritance. For the first time in a long while, Olga smiled genuinely, from the heart.
She returned to the fireplace, picked up an ancient book, and opened it. She began to read, and with every line, she sank deeper into the world of the past, her family’s world, a world she was only now beginning to understand and cherish. She realized her grandmother hadn’t just left her a house and a library; she had left her a key to self-discovery. And Olga was ready to use that key. She would stay in Zarechye, restore the house, study the library, and learn everything about her family. And she would be happy. It was her choice, and she was certain it was the right one because it was made with her heart.