A somber mist envelopes Thornfield Manor as the St. Claire family gathers for the reading of Montgomery St. Claire's will, a week after his funeral. The ancient oaks lining the estate's driveway whisper tales of bygone eras, their gnarled branches creaking in the damp breeze. The imposing mansion looms before me, its gray stone facade glistening with moisture, silent witness to generations of St. Claires who have passed through its grand halls.

The air inside is thick with the scent of polished wood and old books, heavy with unresolved emotions as Montgomery's four children sit uneasily in the oak-paneled library. Their expressions form a mosaic of curiosity and apprehension – Victoria's back rigid with proper grief, Sebastian's fingers tapping impatiently on the armrest, Isabella dabbing at non-existent tears with a lace handkerchief, and Nathaniel alone wearing a genuine expression of sorrow.

Nicholas Sterling, the family solicitor with piercing blue eyes and a demeanor of practiced composure, stands at the head of the room. His black suit contrasts sharply against the rich mahogany of the library shelves that tower behind him, filled with leather-bound volumes that seem to hold their breath along with the assembled family. I shift uncomfortably in the only empty chair, feeling the weight of their curious glances as Nicholas prepares to unravel the mysteries of Montgomery's final wishes.

No one seems to recognize me from those weekends in the park, when Montgomery was just 'Monty' – the old man who taught me chess strategies while feeding ducks and discussing literature. They have no way of knowing about the afternoons we spent together, or how those simple conversations meant more to him than anything his own children ever provided.