Inherited Magic

The Letter

Meredith Trevelyn sat at her kitchen island, methodically sorting through her mail. She separated the bills from the advertisements, placing personal correspondence (rare as it was) in its own neat pile. The cream-colored envelope with the embossed letterhead of “Harrington, Blackwell & Finch, Solicitors” stood out immediately.

She sliced it open with a letter opener, her expression neutral despite the slight tremor in her hands. It had been three weeks since the brief phone call informing her of Agatha Trevelyn’s passing. She had sent flowers but did not attend the funeral.

The letter was formal and to the point, much like Meredith herself:

“Dear Ms. Trevelyn,

This letter is to inform you that under the Last Will and Testament of Agatha Eleanor Trevelyn, you have been named the sole beneficiary of her estate, including the property known as Trevelyn Cottage, situated at Moorland End, St. Just, Cornwall.

There is, however, a condition to this inheritance. The property will pass to you only if you agree to reside at Trevelyn Cottage for a minimum period of one year from the date of taking possession. Should you decline this condition, the property will be donated to the Cornwall Heritage Trust.

Your grandmother was most insistent on this point, noting that ‘the house must have a Trevelyn in residence.’ She has also left a sealed letter for you, which we have been instructed to deliver only upon your arrival at the property.

Please contact our offices at your earliest convenience to discuss how you wish to proceed.

Yours sincerely,

Raymond Finch Esq., KC
Senior Partner
Harrington, Blackwell & Finch, Solicitors”

Meredith set the letter down, her analytical mind already calculating the costs: a year of her life, a year away from her career in London, a year in a remote cottage filled with memories she had spent fifteen years trying to forget.

Yet something tugged at her—the same inexplicable force that occasionally pulled her from dreams of shifting corridors and doors leading to impossible places. The same force she had devoted her adult life to dismissing as mere childhood imagination.

She glanced at her laptop, where a half-finished risk assessment spreadsheet awaited her attention, then back at the letter. One year in exchange for a valuable coastal property she could eventually sell was, objectively speaking, a sound investment.

What she couldn’t explain was the quickening of her pulse at the thought of returning to Trevelyn Cottage—or the whisper in the back of her mind that had waited fifteen years to say, “Welcome back.”

Arrival

The train from London had been predictably efficient until Exeter, where the line narrowed and the pace slowed to match the gradual transition from urban life to rural tranquility. By the time Meredith stepped onto the platform at Penzance, she felt as if she had traveled back in time as well as across the country.

She had hired a car for the final leg—a sensible compact with good fuel economy. The rental agent raised his eyebrows when she mentioned St. Just.

“Moorland End? That’s quite isolated, miss. Especially this time of year.”

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