**THE WILL WASN’T THE ONLY SURPRISE**
Dad always favored my brother, Mark. Everyone knew it. But I never thought he’d… this? The lawyer cleared his throat, adjusting his glasses, and reread the clause. Eighty percent of the antique shop to Mark. Twenty to me.
My hands tightened into fists. Mom squeezed my arm, her face pale. Mark just smirked, a tiny, almost imperceptible shift in his lips.
Then the lawyer coughed again. “There’s… an addendum.” He pulled out another sheet of paper, yellowed and brittle. It wasn’t typed. It was handwritten, in Dad’s familiar scrawl. ⬇️
“This addendum,” the lawyer continued, his voice hushed, “states that the beneficiary of the eighty percent share must, within one year, successfully restore the ‘Seraphina’ clock to working order. Failure to do so will result in the forfeiture of that share, which will then be divided equally between you and your brother.”
A gasp escaped my lips. The Seraphina clock. A legendary, impossibly intricate timepiece, the centerpiece of Dad’s shop, a clock that had stubbornly refused to tick for over a decade. Mark’s smirk vanished, replaced by a look of dawning horror.
“But… but it’s impossible!” he stammered, his voice cracking. “No one’s been able to fix it. Not even Master Chronos himself!”
I felt a surge of exhilaration, quickly followed by a chilling uncertainty. Could I do it? I’d always loved the clock, spent hours as a child mesmerized by its celestial engravings and delicate mechanisms. But I was an accountant, not a clockmaker.
The next year was a blur of frantic research, late nights in the dusty attic workshop, and the constant gnawing fear of failure. Mark, initially distraught, attempted to sabotage my efforts, subtly moving tools, hiding crucial parts. His desperation was palpable, his eyes dark with a bitterness I’d never witnessed before. He’d grown increasingly erratic, his obsession with the inheritance blinding him to reason.
One evening, I discovered a hidden compartment within the clock’s base. Inside, nestled among velvet lining, was a small, leather-bound book. It was Dad’s journal, detailing his meticulous attempts to repair the Seraphina, filled with frustration, breakthroughs, and a profound love for the intricate machinery. It was a blueprint, not just for the clock’s repair, but for understanding my father’s heart.
Following his notes, I understood his struggles, his meticulous work, the small almost imperceptible error that had doomed his previous attempts. With trembling hands, I corrected the fault, a tiny slip of a gear. A click, a whir, and then… the soft, rhythmic tick-tock of the Seraphina filled the workshop.
The day of the deadline arrived, the lawyer present to witness the moment of truth. Mark, pale and gaunt, watched with a mixture of resentment and morbid fascination. With a deep breath, I wound the clock. The pendulum swung, the gears meshed, and the Seraphina sprang to life, its delicate chimes echoing through the shop.
The lawyer, stunned, confirmed the completion. Mark’s shoulders slumped; defeat was etched on his face. But then, something unexpected happened. He approached me, his eyes filled with a strange mix of shame and respect.
“I… I was wrong,” he whispered, extending his hand. “I let my greed blind me. Dad loved you both, and he wanted you to learn from this, not just inherit.”
The shop, the clock, the inheritance… they became secondary. What truly mattered was the reconciliation, the understanding that had blossomed from the ashes of a broken clock and a broken relationship. The final surprise wasn’t the clock’s repair, but the rediscovery of brotherly love. The legacy was not just an antique shop, but a mended family.