The car stopped in front of a rustic stone cottage surrounded by mountains and pine trees. Unlike the cold luxury of my son’s penthouse, this place felt warm, alive, almost peaceful.
Pierre, the driver, simply said, “Inside, you will find what you need.”
With shaking hands, I entered. The cottage was filled with books, a burning fireplace, and a framed photo of Richard as a child smiling like I remembered him.
On the table lay a letter in his handwriting.
In it, Richard explained that this was a hidden place he had loved for years—a sanctuary where he felt free. He wanted me to have it, so I could feel that same peace after his death.
But the letter also hinted at something darker: he believed someone close to him may have been involved in his death, though he had no proof.
As I stood there, I realized this was no longer just grief—it was a search for truth. And I would follow it to the end.