“You’ve got to be joking,” Igor said, rolling one shoulder. His pricey blazer stretched tight across his back, the fabric giving a strained little crackle—like even the stitching knew the size didn’t match the ego.
The notary—a bulky man with labored breathing and a flushed, shiny face—didn’t lift his eyes from the page. The office smelled of stale dust and bargain cologne, the kind Igor had practically bathed in before the meeting. Its sharpness drowned out everything, even the medicinal scent that had soaked into Elena’s skin over five years.
“This isn’t a place for jokes,” the lawyer replied curtly, adjusting his glasses. “I’m reading the final will of your late relative. Do not interrupt.”
Polina, Igor’s sister, gave a derisive snort and crossed her arms for show. She’d flown in three days ago the moment she heard their aunt was dying, and already acted like the home belonged to her. In that short time, she’d appraised the apartment downtown and even found a buyer for the country house.
Elena had watched the heir’s eyes glitter with a predator’s interest as she prowled from room to room. Polina skirted the wheelchair as if it were trash left in the way.
“Just get on with it,” she snapped, tapping her heel with jittery impatience. “Our flight’s tonight, and we still have things to pack up. And the keys—this one…” She nodded toward Elena without even looking at her. “I hope she brought them.”
Elena sat on a stiff chair by the door, trying to make herself as small as possible. To them, she was nothing—just a free attachment that came with a dying old woman. A body that for five years had washed, fed, turned, lifted, and listened to Galina Sergeyevna’s endless stories.
They didn’t see a living person with feelings and memory. They saw only an annoying obstacle that had finally, conveniently, gone away. The notary turned the page; the paper crackled crisply in his hands.
“‘I, Sviridova Galina Sergeyevna, being of sound mind and clear memory, bequeath all my property, including the apartment located at…’”
Igor leaned forward, ready to grab the documents like a trophy at the finish line. Polina’s mouth stretched into a greedy, victorious smile.
“‘…to my caregiver, Elena Viktorovna Kopylova.’”
The air in the room instantly turned thick and heavy, like the seconds before a storm breaks. Someone stopped breathing. Igor’s face slowly flooded with a deep, beet-red color.
“To who?” Polina asked softly, her smile sliding off like flaking plaster.
“To Elena Viktorovna Kopylova,” the notary repeated, flat and emotionless.
“That’s impossible!” Igor sprang up, knocking his chair backward—its crash slapped against everyone’s ears. “This is garbage! She wasn’t in her right mind! That… that swindler drugged her and made her rewrite everything!”
He jabbed a thick finger at Elena, spraying spit. Elena didn’t move. She kept staring at her hands. The skin was chapped and eaten raw by disinfectants; her nails hadn’t seen a manicure in years.
Those hands remembered every bruise and mark on Galina Sergeyevna’s body. They had held her upright on nights she gasped for air. And where had these two been when the old woman screamed from pain?
“There’s an additional note attached to the will,” the notary said, his voice cutting through the rising shouting. “Galina Sergeyevna insisted I read her reason aloud—right now.”
He drew a breath, preparing to deliver the main point.
Your relatives were already dividing up my apartment. The notary read one single line, and the room fell into dead silence.
The words dropped onto the polished desk like heavy stones.
“‘I heard you last New Year’s, when you thought I was asleep under medication, discussing knocking down the wall between the kitchen and the living room. You were dividing up my apartment and calculating my death while I was still alive. Elena is the only one who protected my home, so I leave the walls to her—and I leave you your conscience.’”
Igor stood with his mouth open, gulping the stale office air. Elena finally lifted her head and looked them straight in the eyes for the first time in an hour. There was no triumph there, no gloating—only endless fatigue.
“It’s forged!” Polina shrieked, jumping up. “We’ll contest it! We’ll drag you through courts, do you hear me, you little gray mouse? You’ll be begging me for crumbs!”
“Please leave the office. The procedure is over,” the notary said, snapping the folder shut with finality. He looked like he needed a cigarette, and other people’s hysteria clearly wasn’t covered by his fee.
“We’re not going anywhere!” Igor slammed his fist on the desk. “Give us the keys, you trash! That apartment is ours—she was out of her mind!”
Elena rose slowly, feeling the weight of the keyring in the pocket of her old coat. Those were the keys to a place that had become more of a home to her than the dorm room she was officially registered to. She knew how the third floorboard in the hallway creaked, and the trick to opening the kitchen window.
“No,” she said quietly, but firmly.
“What do you mean, ‘no’?” Igor stepped toward her, looming like a slab of rock. He stank of sweat and undisguised rage.
“I’m not giving you the keys. It’s my property now, and everything’s been done legally.”
She turned and walked out, expecting a blow in the back. It felt like he would grab her shoulder any second—but he only rasped and choked on anger. Polina screeched something about the prosecutor’s office and fraud, but Elena was already outside.
Autumn wind hit her face, washing the dusty office smell out of her lungs. She inhaled deeply, tasting wet asphalt.
They showed up an hour later—exactly as she’d expected. Elena had barely made it inside the apartment and pulled the heavy metal door shut behind her when her heart started hammering up in her throat, making it hard to breathe.
The doorbell went wild almost immediately, turning into long, relentless rings. Then boots and fists joined in, shaking the door panel.
“Open up!” Igor’s voice boomed dully through the metal. “We’ll get in anyway! We’ll call emergency services—tell them you turned on the gas!”
Elena walked into the kitchen, trying to stop her legs from shaking. She filled a glass from the tap and downed it, spilling some onto her chin.
“Lena!” Polina’s voice suddenly turned honeyed, fake-sweet. “Lenochka, why fight? We’re civilized people. You understand—this is a family matter. Grandma didn’t know what she was doing…”
The switch from threats to syrupy manipulation was so fast it made Elena nauseous. Five years ago, when Galina Sergeyevna had suffered a stroke, Polina had sung the same sweet tune—promised extra money, begged for understanding, blamed business and children.
They never paid a cent. And the groceries they brought were the cheapest possible—expired grains and chicken bones. Galina Sergeyevna would cry looking at those “offerings,” and Elena would secretly buy proper meat with her own money.
“I’m calling the police,” Elena said loudly, stepping up to the door but not opening it.
“Call them!” Igor shouted, instantly dropping the mask. “Let them come—I’ll tell them you stole the family jewels! You’ll be in prison for a long time!”
Elena knew there were no jewels left in that house. Anything with even a hint of value had been hauled out three years ago. Back then, they’d thought the end was near and took even the old rugs, leaving bare walls behind.
The pounding started again, harder than before. Elena went into the old woman’s room, where the air still carried a trace of lavender.
On the bedside table stood a photograph of Galina Sergeyevna laughing.
“See?” Elena whispered to the portrait. “They haven’t changed at all.”
She remembered the evening a month ago when the old woman called for the notary. Galina Sergeyevna asked to be dressed in her best outfit and said, “I don’t want them dancing on my bones.” She’d seen nothing in their eyes but greed whenever they came—twice a year at most—to check how much time she had left.
Outside the door, the noise faded briefly. Elena crept to the peephole. No one was visible, but she knew they weren’t going anywhere.
Her phone chimed in her pocket—an unknown number. You’ll regret this. We’ll ruin your life. We’ll give you 500,000—final offer. Elena silently blocked the contact.
All she had to do was outlast the siege. She knew people like them: strong only when they could smell fear. They were used to getting their way by force, but they faltered when they met a wall that didn’t bend.
Then came a sickening scrape inside the lock.
Elena froze. The blood drained from her face: they still had spare keys. Galina Sergeyevna had given copies to the family ten years ago—just in case.
The lock clicked. The handle turned. The door cracked open until it caught on the security chain. Thank God Elena had latched it the moment she came in. Igor’s sweaty, crimson face pushed into the gap.
“Aha! Got you!” He tried to shove his foot into the opening so she couldn’t slam it shut. “Open it! Break the chain!”
Elena moved on instinct. She lunged into the hallway, grabbed a heavy metal shoehorn from the shelf—long, Soviet-made, practically indestructible—and swung. The sharp edge slammed into the polished shoe forcing its way into her home.
A howl like a wounded animal filled the stairwell.
“Aaah! My foot! You crushed my toe!”
Igor yanked his leg back reflexively, and Elena slammed the door shut in the same instant. The bolt slammed home with a violent clack, and she pressed her whole weight against the metal.
“I’ll saw this door off!” Igor screamed outside, mixing threats with curses. “I’ll destroy you!”
“Call the patrol,” Elena shouted back through the door, her voice turning to ice. “I’ll tell them burglars tried to break in. I have the deed in my hands.”
“We’re family!” Polina shrieked.
“You’re nobody here. Take it to court if you want. For now—leave.”
Neighbors began stepping out onto the landing. Old Valya from downstairs was already wailing about hooligans and drug addicts. Public attention was poison to people like Igor and Polina.
They needed it dirty, fast, and quiet—no witnesses. A police scandal didn’t fit their plan.
“We’ll be back,” Igor hissed at last. “You won’t live here.”
Footsteps, then the sound of the elevator swallowing them up. The building went still, no longer echoing with shouting and threats.
Elena slid down the door onto the floor, feeling her last strength drain away. She wanted to cry, but there were no tears left—only a scorched emptiness inside.
She stayed like that for twenty minutes, listening to the building breathe. Then she stood and went to the kitchen, where a geranium on the windowsill was dying of thirst. Elena lifted the watering can, and the water sank into the dry soil with a soft hiss.
“It’s okay,” she told the plant out loud. “We’ll bring you back.”
She knew tomorrow would be real hell—lawyers, inspections, challenges. Igor wasn’t the type to back down after one defeat; he would retaliate. But the fear was gone now, replaced by a cold, steady calculation.
Tomorrow, first thing, she’d change the locks and install an alarm. She had money—she’d saved every coin for five years, denying herself everything. Then she’d go to the service center and finalize the paperwork.
Elena walked to the window. Outside, the evening city was switching on its lights. In the neighboring apartments, normal life went on: someone drinking tea, someone watching television.
She remembered coming to this place five years ago, answering an ad. Back then Galina Sergeyevna had asked, “You won’t steal from me, will you?” Elena had replied, “I’ve got more conscience than you’ve got gold,” and the old woman had laughed.
Over the years they formed a quiet, honest pact between two lonely people. Galina Sergeyevna gave her a roof; Elena gave her care and simple human warmth. It was a fair exchange—nothing like the family’s expectations.
The relatives circled like vultures, waiting for the victim to weaken completely. But they didn’t understand the main thing: an apartment isn’t just square footage. It’s a fortress—and you have to earn the right to it.
Elena cracked the window, letting sharp winter air spill into the stuffy room. She didn’t need money from selling it. She needed a place where no one would dare throw her out.
Now she was the owner.
The doorbell rang again—short, uncertain. Elena calmly stepped to the peephole and saw a courier with a bright delivery bag who’d gotten the wrong floor. She didn’t open the door. She simply went back to the kitchen.
Tomorrow would be war. But tonight, this territory belonged to her alone.
They’d been dividing up her apartment while she was still alive—mentally knocking down walls and tossing out belongings. But now new rules applied here.
Elena pulled an old chipped mug from the cupboard and poured herself plain water. After the stress, she was unbearably thirsty.
“To you, Galina Sergeyevna,” she murmured, lifting the mug like a glass. “And thank you for the final lesson.”
She knew she would never again let anyone wipe their feet on her—not in this world. This apartment wasn’t just an inheritance. It was her steel spine.
Elena turned off the light. The darkness wrapped around her gently, promising quiet. For the first time in five years, she didn’t need to spring up in the night and listen for someone else’s breathing.
She lay down, feeling sleep roll over her like a heavy wave. And in the entryway, on the small table, lay the keys—keys that now belonged to her by right.