The cupboard slid into place with a soft scrape, the sound like sandpaper rubbing against rough wood. Arin pressed his hands against it to make sure it fit snugly over the hole, then stepped back to inspect his work. The cupboard wasn't perfect, but it did the job, hiding the escape route well enough to avoid suspicion.
A smile tugged at his lips. "This is it," he whispered to himself, his voice barely audible over the faint rustle of leaves outside. He crouched low and slipped through the hole, the cool night air brushing against his face like a welcoming hand.
The moment he was fully outside, he straightened up and took a deep breath. The air here was fresh, crisp, and filled with the faint earthy scent of dew-kissed grass. It was a sharp contrast to the suffocating, stale air of the room he'd just left behind, which smelled like mildew, dust, and despair.
"Finally," he muttered, exhaling slowly. The freedom he felt was exhilarating, almost intoxicating.
As he looked around, his eyes adjusted to the moonlight. Shadows danced across the yard, cast by the tall trees that lined the property. He felt a twinge of unease but quickly pushed it aside. No one's awake. No one will see me.
I have to start tonight. If I don't, I'll be wasting precious time. Five months isn't much, and if I want to pass the TSA entrance exam, I need every second.
He clenched his fists, determination coursing through him. "Let's do this," he whispered, a grin spreading across his face.
Arin's bare feet padded softly against the damp grass as he moved swiftly toward his destination: his late grandfather's house. His heart pounded with a mix of excitement and anxiety. I just need to grab a few things to start training. Some weights, maybe a few tools to build my strength…
But as he neared the familiar house, a strange sense of foreboding settled over him.
The first thing he noticed was the front yard. It was in complete disarray. The garden his grandfather had tended so meticulously was trampled, with broken flowerpots scattered everywhere. The front door hung slightly ajar, creaking softly as the wind pushed it back and forth.
"What the…" Arin muttered, his steps slowing.
As he stepped inside, his breath caught in his throat. The entire house was a mess. Chairs were overturned, papers and books littered the floor, and shelves had been emptied, their contents dumped unceremoniously. The faint smell of wood polish and old furniture mixed with the acrid scent of spilled ink and something metallic, like blood.
Arin's stomach twisted. What happened here?
He took a cautious step forward, the floorboards groaning under his weight. The sound echoed in the empty space, making him wince. Stay quiet, he reminded himself. You don't know if someone's still here.
His eyes darted around the room, taking in the destruction. The old clock on the wall had stopped ticking, its glass cover shattered. The dining table, once a centerpiece of family gatherings, was flipped on its side, its legs splintered.
And then it clicked.
A smirk spread across his face as he pieced it together. "So, she finally did it," he muttered under his breath.
It wasn't hard to figure out. His aunt—ever the schemer—must have sent people to ransack the place, hoping to find something valuable. Probably his grandfather's documents or whatever she thought could benefit her.
"She can't help herself, can she?" Arin said aloud, shaking his head. His voice sounded hollow in the empty house, and he quickly fell silent, listening for any movement.
As he moved further inside, his thoughts drifted to his grandfather. He remembered their last conversation vividly—a moment burned into his memory like a brand.
The hospital room was suffused with a sterile chill, the kind that seeped into your bones and made everything feel heavier. The white walls were too bright, the fluorescent lights buzzed faintly overhead, and the faint antiseptic smell clung to every surface. Machines beeped rhythmically, their sounds blending into the quiet hum of activity just beyond the door.
Arin sat in the single, hard-backed chair by the hospital bed, his elbows resting on his knees, fingers laced together. His grandfather lay in the bed, a pale shadow of the robust man Arin had grown up admiring. The old man's chest rose and fell with labored breaths, the oxygen tube in his nose hissing softly with each inhale.
"Arin," the old man said, his voice thin but resolute, cutting through the quiet like a knife.
Arin immediately leaned forward, taking his grandfather's frail hand in his own. It was cool and bony, the veins stark against his papery skin. "I'm here, Grandpa," Arin said softly, his throat tightening.
"You're the only one who ever cared enough to listen," his grandfather began, his tone tinged with both gratitude and sorrow. "The others? They don't care. Not your aunt, not her children. They're vultures, circling me, waiting for me to die."
"Don't say that," Arin interrupted, gripping his hand tighter as if to tether him to the present. "You're still here. That's what matters."
The old man gave a faint chuckle, though it quickly dissolved into a weak cough. Arin reached for the water cup on the bedside table, holding the straw to his grandfather's lips as he sipped.
When the coughing subsided, his grandfather looked at him with a mixture of affection and resignation. "When I'm gone, you'll see," he said, his voice rasping but steady. "They'll come, but not to mourn me. They'll come to see what they can take. Promise me…" He paused, his gaze piercing through Arin like an arrow. "Promise me you'll stay strong. Don't let them break you."
Arin swallowed hard, nodding. "I promise."
A soft knock at the door interrupted the moment, and a nurse stepped in, her rubber-soled shoes squeaking faintly against the polished floor. She smiled politely. "Just checking in," she said, her voice low as she adjusted the IV and glanced at the monitors.
Behind her, a doctor entered, flipping through a chart. His white coat swished as he moved, his expression professional but neutral. He glanced at Arin, then at the old man. "How are we feeling today, Mr. Varlin?"
"Like I'm stuck in this bed too long," his grandfather replied, his tone laced with faint humor.
The doctor chuckled lightly. "Well, you're stable for now. We'll keep monitoring you." He looked at Arin. "Has anyone else come to visit? Any other family?"
Arin's chest tightened. He hesitated, the truth clawing at his throat. "No," he finally admitted, his voice barely above a whisper.
The doctor gave him a sympathetic nod, then turned back to his grandfather. "Let us know if you need anything, Mr. Varlin," he said before exiting with the nurse.
The silence that followed felt oppressive. Arin avoided his grandfather's gaze, ashamed that he had no answer, no defense for why his aunt and her children hadn't shown up.
"Don't worry about them," his grandfather said softly, breaking the silence. "They've made their choices."
Arin looked at him, guilt and frustration swirling in his chest. "It's not right," he said through clenched teeth. "You don't deserve this."
"No one does," his grandfather replied. "But life isn't fair, Arin. That's why you have to fight for what's yours. And that's why I made arrangements."
Arin frowned, leaning closer. "Arrangements?"
His grandfather nodded weakly. "There's a trust fund… for you. It's not much, but it'll help you get started. And the company…" He paused, his breath hitching. "It's not a big company, but it's something. I built it with my hands, and I want you to have it."
"Grandpa…" Arin started, his voice shaking, but his grandfather raised a trembling hand to stop him.
"Listen," the old man said firmly, though his voice wavered. "The documents are hidden. Your aunt can't get her hands on them unless you tell her where to look. And you won't, will you?"
"Never," Arin said with conviction.
A faint smile flickered across his grandfather's face. "Good. They're in the attic, in a compartment under the old sewing table. You'll have to pull the drawer all the way out to see it."
Arin nodded, committing the instructions to memory. "I'll take care of it," he promised.
The old man's expression softened. "I always knew you'd be the one to carry on, Arin. You've got the strength for it. More than I ever did."
Arin felt a lump rise in his throat. "Don't talk like that. You're not going anywhere."
His grandfather chuckled again, weaker this time. "We both know that's not true. But it's okay. I've had a good life. And I'm proud of you."
"Grandpa…"
"I mean it," his grandfather interrupted. "You've got a good heart, Arin. Don't ever lose that. No matter what happens."
The weight of his words settled heavily on Arin's shoulders. He wanted to say so much, to tell his grandfather how much he meant to him, how he'd shaped his life in ways he couldn't put into words. But the emotions were too overwhelming, choking the words before they could form.
The old man's eyes began to close, his breathing evening out as exhaustion overtook him. Arin stayed by his side, holding his hand, unwilling to let go even as sleep claimed his grandfather.
"I won't let you down," he whispered, his voice cracking. "I promise."
The rhythmic beeping of the machines filled the room once more, a stark reminder of the fragility of the moment. Arin sat there for hours, keeping watch, his mind racing with everything his grandfather had told him.
The memory made his chest tighten. He was right.
Arin clenched his fists, his nails digging into his palms. His aunt and her children hadn't even bothered to visit his grandfather when he was on his deathbed, yet here they were, tearing apart his house in search of something to steal.
They'll never stop, will they? Always trying to take what isn't theirs.
His gaze shifted to a corner of the room, where a small chest lay overturned. He walked over, crouching down to inspect it. The lock was broken, the contents scattered. He picked up a few items—a photograph of his grandfather, an old pocket watch, a stack of faded letters.
Carefully, he placed them back inside the chest. "You deserved better than this," he murmured, his voice thick with emotion.
His eyes landed on a pile of weights near the back of the room, partially hidden under a broken shelf. He smiled faintly. At least they didn't find anything.