Hank sat at the long mahogany table in the study, surrounded by neat stacks of paperwork that somehow still managed to look overwhelming. Claudia was already deep in one folder, flipping pages with the calm efficiency of someone who did this for a living.
"Your uncle was incredibly meticulous," she said without looking up. "This is going to make everything smoother than I expected."
"Good to know." Hank scanned a financial summary and felt a small knot in his chest loosen. "Looks like he set up a solid nest egg for Huili if anything ever happened to him. He really trusted her."
Claudia smiled softly. "He loved her. That much is obvious." She turned another page. "And he handled the renovation taxes beautifully—everything's already settled. You won't owe the government much at all."
Hank exhaled, relieved. Mr. Wei Fong appeared at the door carrying a tray of steaming jasmine tea and delicate English biscuits.
"Thank you," Hank said as the butler set the tray down.
"I thought you might need a lifeboat before you drowned on day one," Mr. Fong replied with a gentle smile.
Hank chuckled. "I'll yell if I need one."
Mr. Fong's eyes crinkled with quiet amusement as he left.
Claudia glanced up. "Before we keep burying ourselves in numbers, you should explore the rest of the house. Mr. Fong gave you the main tour yesterday, but he said the attic and basement feel more… personal. He thought it would be respectful if you saw them first."
Hank nodded, taking a sip of the fragrant tea and grabbing two biscuits. "Good idea. I'll be back in an hour. You keep organizing the important stuff from the not-so-important."
"Leave it to your trusty secretary," she teased.
He snorted a laugh and stepped out.
Mr. Fong was dusting an ornate porcelain vase in the hallway.
"Mr. Fong, could you show me the attic entrance?"
"Of course. Follow me."
As they climbed the stairs, Hank asked the question that had been sitting with him since yesterday. "What exactly pulled Uncle Roy so deep into Chinese culture? I know the Hong Kong trip started it, but… why did it stick?"
Mr. Fong walked in thoughtful silence for a moment. "After your aunt passed, he was lost. Truly lost. I suggested small things—meditation, Tai Chi, anything to give his hands and mind something gentle to hold. He took to it faster than I expected. He started asking me about my culture, my country, my childhood stories. The more he learned, the more he healed. Within months he was flying to Hong Kong, then other parts of China. He came back with souvenirs, scrolls, even artifacts he arranged through an archaeologist friend. Customs were… quietly handled."
They reached a narrow door at the top of the stairs. Mr. Fong unlocked it.
"Then, on one of those trips, he met Huili. Brought her home. His children weren't happy, but anyone who saw them together knew it was real love."
The attic smelled of cedar and old paper. Dust motes danced in the slanted sunlight from small windows. Rows of boxes waited like quiet witnesses.
"He has… had… a lot up here," Hank murmured.
They opened several together. Clothes, jewelry, keepsakes—things that clearly belonged to Huili or the family. Hank lifted a dusty sheet and froze.
A large portrait: a younger Uncle Roy with short black hair and kind green eyes, arm around a smiling blonde woman with bright blue eyes.
"My uncle and aunt…"
Mr. Fong's smile was sad and fond. "Two wonderful people. I cared for them both very much. The painting is dusty, but it can be restored beautifully."
"Please do," Hank said quietly.
They found more photos, porcelain plates, a few leather journals. Hank set them aside to sort later.
"Ready for the basement?" Mr. Fong asked.
"Yeah. Let's go."
On the way down they passed Huili in casual clothes, heading upstairs.
"Good morning," she said with a small bow.
"Morning," both men replied.
"You two look like you've been exploring dusty places," she teased, pointing at their shirts.
"We were in the attic," Hank said. "There are things up there that might be nice for you. You should take a look whenever you want."
She hesitated. "Only after the rest of the family has had a chance. I don't want to take anything that isn't right."
Hank gave her a sad but understanding smile. "Of course. Just know the offer is open."
They continued downstairs. Mr. Fong opened a heavy door that led deeper than Hank expected.
The basement air was cooler, carrying a faint trace of incense and aged wood. When they reached the bottom room, Hank stopped short.
"Whoa…"
Small shrines lined the walls—delicate statues of deities and guardians, brass incense burners, silk banners. In the center of the floor was a perfect circle painted in deep red, with a simple meditation mat at its heart.
"I didn't know he had a ritual room," Mr. Fong said, voice hushed with genuine surprise. "I've never seen one arranged quite like this."
Hank walked the perimeter carefully. "What do you think he used it for?"
"I'm not certain. Cleansing, perhaps? A place to release grief. He always told me to leave the basement alone. Now I understand why."
They stood in respectful silence for a moment.
"Some research might help," Hank said finally.
"Of course. Your uncle found peace here. That much I know."
They returned upstairs. Hank went back to the study while Claudia headed down to see the room for herself.
"Alright, Hank—done with the first big stack," she said when she returned twenty minutes later. "How was the rest of the tour?"
"Found family stuff in the attic… and that ritual room in the basement."
"A ritual room?" Her eyebrow arched.
"Yeah. You can check it out if you want while I finish these." He gestured at the neatly labeled piles she'd left him. "Thanks for organizing, by the way."
"No problem. I'll take a quick look. Good luck with the rest!"
While she was gone, Hank dove into the land documents. The property had been passed down based on "merits of character"—a tradition started by his grandfather. He stared at the words and felt a familiar twist of guilt. What merits did he have, really?
Photos showed the house's slow transformation: modest changes in his uncle's thirties, then the dramatic Chinese renovation two years after his aunt's death. Everything after that spoke of healing.
He moved on to investments. One folder was his own long-term holding—an old company with decades of loyal partnership. He made a mental note to reach out.
Claudia returned just as he closed the last file.
"Weird room," she said, "but I've seen weirder on YouTube. No immediate red flags. Want me to research it?"
"You've already done so much."
"Nonsense. I love a good puzzle. Plus, it'll be cool to figure out what your uncle was actually doing down there."
Mr. Fong appeared in the doorway. "Lunch is ready. Would the young miss like to stay?"
Claudia grinned. "I'd love to."
"Fuyoh! I'll prepare my best dishes."
Hank laughed softly as the butler hurried off. "I like him already. He's good people."
Lunch was a spread of noodles, fried dumplings, and fragrant stir-fried vegetables. Mr. Fong joined them at the table. Between bites Hank said, "I think I want to keep the place. I just have to figure out the finances… and meet with the investment guy tomorrow."
"Set it up," Claudia said. "I'll advise you through it."
Hank turned to Mr. Fong. "Have you seen Huili? I wanted to ask if she looked through the attic things and if she needs any help."
"She's trying on a few pieces and messaging her parents. I'll check on her after lunch."
"Great."
As the meal wound down, Hank stepped away to make the call.
"Cole and Marion, how can I help you?"
"Hank Calloway, Roy's nephew. I'd like to speak with David Cole."
One transfer later: "Hank! Your uncle spoke of you often. How are you holding up?"
"I'm managing, sir. Wondered if you're free for lunch tomorrow?"
"Tomorrow at noon works. There's a new deli on Wilshire—great sandwiches."
"Perfect. I'll bring my assistant if that's all right."
"Absolutely. See you then, Hank."
He hung up and found Claudia waiting with a notepad already in hand.
"I'll be ready," she said.
Hank smiled. "Hope you're in the mood for sandwiches."
"Always."
He turned to Mr. Fong. "We're heading to that new deli in Wilshire tomorrow at noon."
"I've heard good things. I'll have the car ready."
Everything felt… manageable for the first time in days.
Then, alone in the hallway, the voice returned—soft, almost tender.
"…Hank…"
He turned sharply. Empty corridor. Sunlight slanted through the silk lanterns.
The voice came again, slower, drawn out, like someone whispering through water.
"…H…a…n…k…"
A chill raced down his spine. The house felt suddenly too quiet, too watchful.
Hank rubbed his arms and walked faster toward the study.
This place is off, he thought. Way off.
He made a mental note to look up exorcists before bed.
Or maybe just… stay away from the quiet corners for a while.
End of Chapter