Ethan Foster had just wrapped up a lively discussion with his high school students about ancient myths and their modern interpretations when his phone buzzed on the corner of his desk. It was an odd distraction; he never allowed personal matters to interfere with his teaching. Still, something about the notification pulled at him. He glanced at it, his heart immediately sinking.

A message from his mother: Call us as soon as possible. It's important.

His mind raced as he concluded the class, hastily assigning homework before dismissing his students. With a deep breath, he stepped out into the empty hallway, the echoes of his students' laughter fading behind him. He dialed home, feeling the tension gather in his shoulders.

"Ethan?" His mother's voice sounded distant, more strained than usual.

"Mom, what's going on?"

There was a pause, one long enough for Ethan to realize the gravity of whatever was about to be said. He braced himself.

"It's your grandfather... He passed away early this morning."

Ethan's heart dropped. His grandfather, the legendary Dr. Alistair Foster, was a towering figure in the academic world, a historian and scholar of global renown. Ethan had always felt both inspired and suffocated by his grandfather's achievements, which cast a long shadow over the entire family. Alistair had been more than just a scholar; he was a man who seemed to embody the very legacy of knowledge the Foster family cherished. His presence was larger than life, and while his academic brilliance was a source of pride, it also created a weight of expectation that Ethan constantly struggled to bear.

"We're flying out to the family estate tomorrow for the funeral. Your father's already making arrangements," his mother continued.

Ethan's mouth was dry. "I'll be home soon," he managed to say before hanging up.

The rest of the day passed in a blur. Ethan's lessons felt automatic, as if he were on autopilot. His thoughts remained with his grandfather, the last conversation they had, and how he'd always fallen short in Alistair's eyes. Not for lack of trying, but simply because Alistair was... well, Alistair.

Later that evening, Ethan arrived home, the familiar sight of his family's suburban house greeting him with a bittersweet comfort. He lived here, with his parents and two older sisters, Claudia and Isabelle, who had long moved out but always found their way back for dinners and family gatherings. Tonight, though, they were gathered for a more somber reason.

His mother, Julia Foster, a surgeon, greeted him at the door with a tight hug. Her normally calm face was lined with grief, and her brown hair was pulled back into a tight bun. She had green eyes that reflected her deep emotions.

Ethan's father, Thomas Foster, a respected professor at the local university, sat at the kitchen table, staring at his phone with a calm expression. He was a man of few words, and this moment was no exception. He had black hair with some gray in it and brown eyes. He had written many books, won awards, and helped countless students achieve success in society.

Claudia and Isabelle were already in the living room. Claudia, the older sister, was a focused lawyer who had inherited their father's sharp mind and strong discipline. She had brown hair, neatly tied back, and brown eyes that always seemed to be thinking and analyzing. Isabelle, on the other hand, had followed their mother into medicine and was a well-respected surgeon. Her features were softer, with her brown hair falling loosely over her shoulders, and her brown eyes were full of kindness.

"Hey, little brother," Isabelle called out with a half-hearted smile as Ethan walked in. She, like Claudia, had an air of quiet confidence that made Ethan feel perpetually younger, despite only being a few years their junior. "You okay?"

Ethan nodded, but inside, he felt the pressure of expectations grow heavier. His sisters were successful and well-known for their accomplishments. He, on the other hand, was just a high school history teacher. He loved his job, but in a family of scholars, lawyers, and doctors, he often felt like the odd one out, as if he were pretending to be a Foster instead of truly living up to the family name. Still, Ethan was proud of his family.

"We've got the flights booked for tomorrow," Thomas said gruffly, rising from his seat. "We'll be heading to the family estate in the morning. The funeral is the day after."

The following morning, the Fosters gathered their bags and headed to the airport. The mood was subdued, though Claudia and Isabelle still found time to tease Ethan, as they always did.

"So, are you going to give a grand speech at the funeral?" Claudia smirked, nudging Ethan as they boarded the plane. "You're the history buff in the family. Surely, you'll have something to say about Grandfather's contributions to the field."

Ethan grimaced, adjusting his glasses. He had black hair pulled back into a tiny ponytail and eyes that were a striking shade of green. He was not as sharp as Claudia or as compassionate as Isabelle, just Ethan.

"I doubt anyone wants to hear me speak," he muttered, settling into his window seat.

"Oh, come on," Isabelle chimed in with a playful grin as she took the seat next to him. "You're a teacher! You give speeches all the time. This is just a room full of relatives instead of students."

Ethan rolled his eyes, trying to ignore the knot in his stomach. The idea of speaking at his grandfather's funeral filled him with dread. Alistair had always been a man of grand gestures and powerful words. How could Ethan ever do him justice?

"Relax, we're just teasing," Isabelle added softly, noticing his discomfort. "But you know, he was proud of you, Ethan. Even if he didn't always show it."

Ethan wasn't so sure. His grandfather had never outright criticized him, but there was always an air of disappointment whenever they spoke. An unspoken sense lingered that Ethan should be doing more, achieving more, living up to the grand Foster legacy. The pressure weighed on him constantly, though he tried not to show it.

As the plane took off, Ethan looked out the window and watched the city get smaller below. His mind went back to the family estate, a large mansion on many acres of land, filled with history, artifacts, and memories. It always felt more like a museum than a home. He had spent many summers there as a child, running through its winding hallways and looking at the ancient items his grandfather had collected during his travels.

Now, as he returned for Alistair's funeral, Ethan felt a mix of emotions. He was sad, but he also felt like he didn't measure up. He was the least successful person in the family, having chosen a different path: teaching high school students about history and mythology instead of doing important work in academia or society.

"Ethan," his father's voice interrupted his thoughts. Thomas was sitting in the aisle seat across from him, sandwiched between Claudia and Julia. "I know this is a difficult time for all of us, but I want you to know that your grandfather respected you. He admired your passion for history, even if he didn't always say it."

Ethan nodded, though he wasn't convinced. His father's words were meant to be comforting, but they felt empty. He wondered if his father also felt disappointed in him. In a family like theirs, success was expected, and anything less felt like a failure.

Claudia looked over with an eyebrow raised. "And who's going to take care of all the academic guests at the funeral? You know how Grandfather's colleagues liked to argue about his work. This could end up being an unexpected discussion session."

"That's what Uncle Richard is for," Isabelle teased. "He can handle the intellectual debates while we just... mourn."

"Uncle Richard" was another family scholar, a historian like Alistair who had devoted his life to academics. Although he and Alistair often disagreed, they both shared a love for knowledge. Ethan felt a pang of inadequacy; his uncle was so brilliant that Ethan's own career seemed small in comparison.

Their mother, Julia, sighed, looking off into the distance. "Let's just hope he can keep them from turning it into a symposium. I don't want to deal with a room full of pretentious scholars arguing while we're just trying to remember him." She smiled faintly, a mix of warmth and concern, grateful for the lighthearted conversation amidst their sorrow.

As the plane hummed quietly, Ethan leaned back in his seat and closed his eyes, trying to calm the turmoil in his mind. He thought about his grandfather's study, filled with dusty books, ancient manuscripts, and relics from across the world. He remembered sitting at Alistair's knee as a child, listening to tales of ancient empires and forgotten gods. His love for history had been born in that room, under his grandfather's watchful eye.

But that love had never translated into the kind of success his grandfather expected.

By the time they landed and drove to the family estate, the sun was beginning to set, casting long shadows over the grounds. The mansion loomed ahead, its towering structure just as imposing as Ethan remembered. The air was heavy with the scent of pine and freshly cut grass, but there was an eerie stillness, as if the house itself was mourning.

The Fosters were greeted by relatives, family friends, colleagues, and admirers of Alistair. Ethan could already hear snippets of conversations about his grandfather's work, his impact on the field of history, and the countless lives he had touched.

As they stepped inside the grand foyer, Ethan felt an emptiness settle in his chest. The grandeur of the space, with its high ceilings and ornate decorations, seemed to echo with the absence of his grandfather. Alistair was no more, and the reality of that hit him like a wave.

Just then, Uncle Henry, the family butler, appeared from a side corridor, his demeanor calm and collected despite the somber atmosphere. "Welcome back, Fosters," he said with a nod, his voice low and respectful. "If you'll follow me, I will show you to your rooms."

Butler Henry was an old man, his hair silver and his posture slightly stooped with age, but his eyes still sharp and full of warmth. He had been with the family for as long as anyone could remember, looking after the house with unwavering dedication.

As Henry turned to lead the way, Thomas placed a hand on his shoulder. "It's good to see you, Henry," he said softly, the weight of shared history evident in his tone. "I know this must be hard for you too. You knew him longer than any of us."

Henry paused, turning back to face Thomas. His weathered eyes held a trace of sorrow as he nodded, his lips pressing together in a thin line. "Your father was a good man, sir," he replied. "It's been an honor to serve this family."

Thomas sighed, his gaze drifting toward the grand staircase that led to the second floor, as though it held memories only he and Henry could recall. "You've done more than serve, Henry. You've been part of the family."

For a brief moment, Henry's composed facade softened, the formality slipping away as he met Thomas's eyes. "Thank you, sir. It means a great deal to hear that."

Ethan watched the exchange in silence, feeling the weight of the moment. Uncle Henry had always been more than just a butler to the family; he was the quiet guardian of their home, the keeper of their shared memories and history.

As Henry turned once more to lead them upstairs, a few other servants quietly appeared, lifting the family's bags with practiced ease. They followed behind the Fosters, moving in near silence, allowing the family to walk ahead, undisturbed by the burdens of luggage or the echoes of grief. The house seemed to hold its breath, as though aware that everything had changed with Alistair's passing.