The atmosphere in the room was thick—heavy with a tension barely masked by silence.
Even without a word spoken, I could feel the restless glances, the barely restrained impatience.
As expected, my uncles and cousins were all here, wearing the same feigned grief they'd put on like an ill-fitting suit.
I took a seat near the long table, quietly.
I had no real interest in what was about to happen, but I knew I couldn't just walk away.
My grandfather's lawyer—a middle-aged man with thin-rimmed glasses and an unreadable expression—stood up and cleared his throat softly to draw everyone's attention.
"Before we begin, I'd like to remind everyone that this document represents the final will of Mr. Hiroshi Kiryuu," he said firmly, without hesitation. "No matter what you hear, I ask that you respect his decision and maintain composure."
A soft murmur swept through the room, like waves brushing against a quiet shore.
But no one objected.
The lawyer took out a sealed envelope, opened it with care, and began to read aloud:
> "To my beloved daughter, who has been my greatest pride and joy, I leave half of all my assets and properties. May this inheritance give her the stability and strength to continue on with grace and resolve."
Out of the corner of my eye, I saw my aunt bow her head. Her eyes shimmered with tears she refused to shed, but her face remained calm.
She'd been closest to him… and without question, the one who suffered the most from his passing.
> "To my sons, Kenji and Takeshi, who chose their own paths in life, I leave the other half of my fortune. I trust they will use it with wisdom."
The two of them exchanged subtle glances and faint, knowing smirks.
To them, this was nothing but a formality—confirmation of something they had already assumed.
> "To my grandsons who carry the Kiryuu name, I leave an equal share meant for their growth and future. May this inheritance help shape their own destinies."
My cousins visibly relaxed.
To them, this was a birthright, not a gift. Something expected, not earned.
Then the lawyer paused.
"And finally," he said, voice more solemn than before, "regarding my grandson, Haruki Kiryuu…"
I felt the eyes shift toward me.
Some curious, some mocking. Most, empty.
> "To Haruki, who has been both my greatest concern… and my greatest hope, I leave no riches nor properties of grand value. Instead, I entrust him with the documents to an old family farm on the outskirts of Kyoto. This land is priceless. It holds memories, lessons… and a purpose I trust he will uncover when the time is right. Along with it, I leave him this letter, written with all my love and faith in his future."
The lawyer pulled out a smaller, carefully sealed envelope and placed it in front of me on the table.
A hush fell over the room.
My cousins exchanged amused glances.
My uncles frowned, visibly perplexed.
To them, this was no gift—it was a humiliation.
As for me…
I didn't know what to think.
A farm?
Did he really believe that was what I needed?
I picked up the envelope.
It was warm, as if it still carried the heat of his hands.
Then, without warning, Kenji's mocking voice sliced through the silence:
"A farm? You've got to be kidding."
"Sounds like a joke," Takeshi added with a scoff. "We get assets… and he gets dirt."
"Guess the old man finally realized how useless you were," Hiroki sneered. "Left you a burden instead of an inheritance."
Souta let out a quiet chuckle, muttering something under his breath as he scrolled through his phone.
I didn't reply.
Not because their words didn't hurt—
but because they weren't worth the energy.
Then, my aunt—who had remained silent until now—slammed her hand against the table.
"Enough!" she shouted, her voice cracked with both rage and sorrow. "Do none of you have any respect? This was his wish!"
The room fell silent, though the disdain in their eyes remained fixed on me.
The lawyer closed the document with practiced grace.
"The reading is now concluded. If anyone wishes to contest the terms, they may do so through the appropriate legal channels. However, I reiterate—this was the final will and testament of Mr. Hiroshi Kiryuu."
Kenji gave a dismissive shrug, wearing that same arrogant smile.
"There's nothing to contest. We were the ones favored, after all."
I stayed in my seat, saying nothing, staring down at the envelope with the letter.
My grandfather had left me a farm.
Not money.
Not lavish properties.
Just a patch of land far from here… and a single letter.
Is this… what he believed I needed?
I took a deep breath and slipped the letter into my coat pocket.
I had no idea what lay ahead.
But for some reason…
this didn't feel like an ending.
It felt like the beginning of something else entirely.