My husband had spent years warning me never to set foot on that farm. So after he passed away and the lawyer handed me the key, saying that from now on the place belonged to me, I was ready to sell it right away and put everything behind me. But before making my final decision, I still wanted to see it once for myself. When the door opened, I finally understood why, all those years, he had never wanted me to set foot there.

I crossed the room, locked the front door, and stood very still while they approached. My pulse had gone fast and cold. I was alone, in a foreign country, inside a house that now legally belonged to me but emotionally still felt like stepping into someone else’s dream.

The oldest man raised a hand and knocked. Not hard at first. More like a man announcing himself where he expected eventual compliance.

“Mrs. Mitchell,” he called. “We know you’re in there.”

His voice carried through the wood with that softened Canadian cadence Joshua’s own voice sometimes slipped into when he was exhausted or caught off guard. Hearing it from another man felt like hearing a private melody turned into something public and unpleasant.

I did not answer.

He knocked again, more sharply this time. “Catherine. My name is Robert Mitchell. I’m Joshua’s older brother. These are our brothers, Allan and David. We need to talk.”

Need. Not hope. Not would appreciate. Already the language of entitlement.

My eyes shifted to the desk.

Whatever answers Joshua had left for me were there. Not on the porch with three men who had appeared less than five minutes after I first unlocked the house. The timing alone told me enough. Someone had been watching. Or waiting.

The knocking grew harder.

“Mrs. Mitchell, this won’t help anyone,” Robert called. “This property is under dispute, and you need to understand the situation.”

Still I remained silent.

I crossed the room, opened the laptop, and entered the password: 05151998Holland.

The screen came to life immediately. A folder sat on the desktop labeled FOR CATHERINE.

I clicked it.

Hundreds of video files appeared, each one dated. My mouth went dry. The first began two weeks after his death. The dates continued forward, one by one, for a full year.

I opened the earliest file.

Joshua filled the screen.

Not the Joshua from the hospital corridor where I had last seen him. Not the pale, still version from the funeral home with its cruel attempt at dignity. This Joshua looked healthy, tanned, alive, seated in what I now realized was this very house months before I ever knew it existed. His smile came easy, crooked at one corner, the one that had undone me from the beginning.

“Hello, Cat,” he said.

My hand flew to my mouth.