The rejection email came at 2:47 AM, which felt about right for how Nora's life was going.
She'd been awake anyway, staring at the water stain on her ceiling that looked like a screaming face if you squinted hard enough. The phone's blue light cut through the darkness of her studio apartment—if you could even call it that. Studio implied some kind of creative space. This was a box with a hotplate and a bathroom door that didn't quite close.
*We regret to inform you that your portfolio does not meet our current needs.*
Nora didn't bother reading the rest.
She'd gotten enough of these to know they all said the same thing in different ways. Thanks but no thanks. Your art isn't good enough. Try never again.
She dropped the phone on her chest and closed her eyes. The couple upstairs was fighting again, their voices muffled through the thin ceiling but the anger crystal clear. Someone slammed a door. Something shattered.
Welcome to Brooklyn at 3 AM.
Her alarm would go off in three hours for her shift at Mel's Diner, where she'd spend eight hours smiling at people who didn't tip and pretending the smell of burnt coffee didn't make her want to scream.Then maybe she'd come home and paint for an hour before exhaustion won. That was the dream, right? Suffering for your art?
Except the suffering part was working out great. The art part, not so much.
Her phone buzzed again. Probably another credit card company. She'd stopped answering those calls two months ago, right after the final hospital bill came through. Forty-seven thousand dollars. Might as well have been forty-seven million.
But the screen said "Unknown Number" and something made her answer.
"Is this Nora Chen?" A man's voice, older, careful.
"Depends who's asking." She sat up, suddenly awake. Debt collectors are getting creative these days.
"My name is Robert Whitmore. I'm an attorney in Sunset Cove, Maine. I'm calling about your grandmother, Dorothy Chen."
Nora's throat went tight. She hadn't thought about her grandmother in years. Hadn't seen her since—what, she was nine? Maybe ten? Just childhood summers that felt more like dreams than memories.
"I'm very sorry to inform you that Mrs. Chen passed away three days ago".The words hung there in the dark. Nora waited for something to hit—grief, shock, anything. But there was just this weird emptiness, like hearing about a stranger.
"Oh," she said, because what else was there?
"The funeral is scheduled for this Saturday at two PM. Mrs. Chen left specific instructions that you be notified and..." He paused. "She's left you something in her will. It's rather important that you attend the reading."
"Left me something?" Nora's laugh came out harsh. "We haven't spoken in fifteen years."
"Nevertheless." His voice wentcareful again, like he was picking through a minefield. "I think you'll want to be there, Ms. Chen. The estate is... substantial."
Estate. The word felt foreign, like something from a movie about rich people with problems that didn't include which bill to pay first.
"I can't just leave," Nora said. "I have work. I have—"
"The will reading is mandatory if you want to claim your inheritance." He wasn't mean about it, just stating facts. "I can email you the details. The funeral home is covered. Your grandmother made arrangements."
Of course she did. Gran had always been the planning type, from whatNora remembered. Everything in its place, everything thought through.
After he hung up, Nora sat there in the dark with her phone cooling in her hand. The couple upstairs had gone quiet. Even the street outside seemed to be holding its breath.
Maine. She hadn't been back since—since when exactly? The memories were fuzzy, worn smooth like sea glass. A big house near the ocean. Gardens that seemed to go on forever. And something else, something she couldn't quite catch. A feeling maybe. Being happy? Being safe?
She pulled up her bank account on her phone. Three hundred and forty-two dollars until next Friday. Her credit cards were maxed. She owed her roommate—a former roommate, since Jess had moved out last month—six hundred in back rent.
But if there was an inheritance...
Nora shook her head. Don't be stupid. It was probably nothing. Some jewelry maybe, or china plates she'd have to sell on eBay. Rich people loved passing down useless stuff and calling it legacy.
Still. She opened Google and typed "Sunset Cove Maine."
The images that came up looked like something from a postcard. Rocky coastline, white lighthouse, little downtown with brick buildings and American flags. Pretty in that New England way that always felt fake to Nora, like a movie set.
She clicked on real estate listings just out of curiosity.
The numbers made her breath catch. Houses going for millions. Oceanfront properties with words like "estate" and "compound" and "private beach access."
Her grandmother's house had been right on the water. She remembered that much. I remembered the sound of waves at night, the smell of salt air, the way the fog rolled in thick enough to get lost in.
No way. There was no way Gran had held onto that place. She'd probably sold it years ago, downsized to somecondo, left Nora maybe enough to cover a month's rent if she was lucky.
But what if.
The thought was dangerous and Nora knew it. Hope was expensive, more than she could afford right now. But it bloomed anyway, stubborn and bright in her chest.
She pulled up Mel's number and typed out a text: *Family emergency. Need Saturday through Monday off. I know it's short notice.*
Mel would probably fire her. Whatever. There were other diners, other jobs that paid minimum wage and slowly killed your soul.
Then she opened her email and found the cheapest bus ticket toMaine she could find. Two hundred and thirty-seven dollars round trip, leaving Friday night.
Her finger hovered over the purchase button.
This was stupid. She was being stupid. Chasing after some fantasy of an inheritance that probably didn't exist, banking on a grandmother who'd been basically a stranger. She should save that money, use it for groceries or the electric bill that was already overdue.
But Nora clicked buy anyway.
The confirmation email arrived instantly, cheerful and final. Well. That was that then. She was going to Maine, to a funeral for a woman shebarely remembered, to collect an inheritance that was probably worthless.
She lay back down and stared at the screaming face on her ceiling. The couple upstairs started up again, their voices rising and falling like waves.
In three days she'd be back in Sunset Cove for the first time in fifteen years. Back to that house by the ocean, if it even still existed. Back to memories she'd buried so deep she'd half-convinced herself they weren't real.
Nora closed her eyes and tried to picture her grandmother's face. Couldn't quite manage it. Just impressions: silver hair, soft hands, the smell of oil paint and jasmine tea.
"Sorry I wasn't there," she whispered to the dark. "Sorry I didn't... I don't know. Call or something."
The ceiling didn't answer. The couple upstairs slammed another door.
And somewhere in Maine, in a house Nora could barely remember, her grandmother was dead and apparently she'd left something behind.
Nora figured she might as well go find out what.