Chapter 1: The Gift
The smell of antiseptic and old lavender hung heavy in the air of the master bedroom, a scent that Tom Miller would associate with this specific day for the rest of his life. At sixty-two, Tom was the oldest of the cousins, a man whose hands were roughened by forty years of carpentry, yet he felt like a small child standing at the foot of that mahogany four-poster bed. Grandpa Arthur, the patriarch who had held the Miller family together with iron will and cryptic humor, was fading fast. His breathing was shallow, a rattling sound that seemed to count down the seconds left in the room.
All five grandchildren were present. There was Sarah, clutching her handkerchief; Mike, shifting uncomfortably in his grease-stained work boots; heavy breathing coming from the corner where Rick stood, checking his watch every thirty seconds; and little Jenny, who wasn't so little anymore. They stood in a semi-circle, watching the man who had been a giant in their lives shrink into the crisp white linens. Arthur’s eyes, usually sharp as a hawk’s, were milky, but they suddenly snapped open with a clarity that made everyone jump. He didn't ask for water. He didn't ask for a priest. He pointed a shaking finger toward the nightstand.
"The drawer," Arthur wheezed, his voice sounding like dry leaves scraping together. "Open it, Thomas." Tom stepped forward, his flannel shirt rustling in the quiet room. He pulled the brass handle and retrieved five thick, creamy envelopes. They were sealed with red wax, an old-world touch that was classic Arthur. "One for each of you," the old man whispered. "My legacy. My final game." He watched as Tom distributed them. When Rick grabbed his, he practically snatched it from Tom’s hand, his eyes hungry.
"Listen to me," Arthur said, struggling to lift his head an inch off the pillow. "You do not open these. Not today. Not tomorrow." A coughing fit seized him, racking his frail body until his face turned a worrisome shade of purple. When it passed, he glared at them with intense seriousness. "You open them only when I am in the ground. After the funeral. Not a minute before. Do you promise?" A murmur of "Yes, Grandpa" went around the room. Sarah was weeping softly. Even Mike nodded solemnly.
The room began to clear as the nurse ushered them out to let the old man rest. Rick was the first to the door, shoving the envelope into the inside pocket of his slightly ill-fitting black suit. Tom lingered behind, feeling a strange heaviness in his chest. He reached out to pat his grandfather’s hand, a silent goodbye. He turned to leave, thinking Arthur had drifted back into sleep.
Suddenly, Arthur’s hand shot out, grabbing Tom’s wrist with a grip that was shockingly strong, almost painful. It was the desperate strength of the dying. Tom froze, looking back. Arthur pulled him down close, his lips brushing Tom’s ear. "Watch Rick," he hissed, his voice trembling with urgency. "Don't let him out of your sight."
