The Legacy of Flame: The Tale of Arthur and the Forgotten Gift
Arthur couldn’t sleep. He tossed and turned in bed, staring at the darkened ceiling as if the cracks held answers. His mother’s death had carved a hollow in his soul, impossible to fill. And his father—once strong and unshakable—had lost all will to live, sitting for hours in the dim light without bothering to switch on a lamp.
Nearly a year had passed since Valentina’s funeral when Paul’s heart gave out. He died quietly, alone, in their family home near Stroud. Arthur didn’t even get to say goodbye.
The funeral was modest, much like Paul’s life. He’d never sought fame, keeping to himself. But the will, read aloud in the solicitor’s office, left everyone stunned.
His father’s former business partner received a share of the company. A few bank accounts went to strangers Arthur didn’t know. And to him? A tiny plot of land with a wooden cottage in the village of Oak Hollow—a place he’d never even heard of.
“There must be some mistake,” Arthur said, disbelief heavy in his voice. “Father owned flats in London, several estates. Why leave me this backwater?”
The solicitor unfolded the document calmly.
“It’s clear as day: ‘To my son Arthur—the house in the woods. May he understand one day.’ No further explanation.”
The words hung in the air like a riddle. What was he meant to understand?
Days later, Arthur made the journey. A long trek: train, bus, then two miles on foot down a forest path. The village had long been abandoned. Only trees, wind, and an eerie silence remained.
He unlatched the rusty lock. Inside, the air smelled of damp, dust, and pine. The cottage was unexpectedly sturdy—solid furniture, an old stove, stacks of books, and weathered albums.
By the window stood an easel with a blank canvas. Fresh, as if someone had meant to paint but never got the chance. Beside it lay a neatly folded envelope. On the yellowed paper, in careful script:
*“Arthur. Forgive me. It’s time you knew the truth.”*
His hands trembled as he unfolded the letter:
*Son,
If you’re reading this, I’m gone. All your life, I’ve tried to shield you from one truth. Not out of fear of you, but for you.
You, like your mother, have a gift. Not mere sensitivity or imagination. A true sight. Dreams that come true. Visions you’ve feared. It’s part of you.
I wanted you to live an ordinary life. Gave you everything—home, education, support. But your path is different.
This cottage belonged to your grandfather. He was a painter, and his works came alive. Literally. He saw through time, and here, the veil between worlds is thin.
I’ve left you the canvas. Only you will see what appears on it. Don’t be afraid. But be cautious: not every painting should be finished.*
Arthur shut his eyes. And remembered. As a child, he’d drawn a burning house—a week later, it was on the news. His mother had stroked his hair and whispered, *“It’s not your fault. Just feel, then let go.”* He’d called it coincidence. Until now.
That night, sleep wouldn’t come. He sat on the porch, listening to the forest’s breath, the creak of timber, the crackle of firewood. The cottage felt alive.
At dawn, he set the easel by the window, sunlight spilling onto the canvas. He picked up a brush, and his hand moved without thought or plan. Only instinct.
Trees took shape. Then—a woman in white. Her face blurred, dreamlike. Around her, fire. Bright. Warm. Not burning, but guarding.
When Arthur finished, the sun dipped low. He wiped his hands, turned—and froze.
In the doorway stood a woman. White dress, hair tied back. She smiled at him. Even in the gloom, he knew her. Valentina. His mother.
“Mum…?” he whispered.
She stepped forward, brushed his hand—then vanished like morning mist over the fields.
He wasn’t afraid. He understood. Forgave. Found peace.
From then on, he stayed in the cottage. Painted. Worked in silence. His art soon appeared in galleries—under a pseudonym. Each piece held a story. Some saw lost loved ones. Others, themselves. Or homes they’d dreamed of but never known.
He didn’t seek fame. He’d found his voice.
And in the corner of his workshop, that first canvas still stands: a woman in flame, guarding the way. Each time Arthur passes it, he murmurs:
“Thank you, Mum. Now I understand.”