The Summer I Inherited Everything

The funeral home corridor in Hamburg smelled like cold flowers and disinfectant. Clara von Lindenau walked with her handbag held close, as if distance could be measured in centimeters. Her dress was black. Her pearls were old and heavy, pressed into her palms like armor. She had cried earlier, in a bathroom stall with the tap running, because tears in public were a kind of weakness the family never forgave.

A man in a dark suit opened a door at the end of the hall. “Ms. von Lindenau. They will see you now.” His voice was polite, but his eyes stayed on the folder in his hands. Clara knew that look. People looked at her like she was a problem that needed solving, not a granddaughter who had lost her grandfather.

Inside, the room was too warm and too quiet. The curtains were drawn. The air held the faint scent of rosewater, like someone had tried to cover up the truth with perfume. Victor von Lindenau stood by the window with a glass of water that he did not drink. Amelie sat straight-backed in a chair, hands folded, face composed. Eleonore von Lindenau sat near the table, her rings catching the light. And Adrian Falk was there too, as if he belonged to the walls.