No one else in the room seemed to notice when the clock stopped ticking. They were too busy arguing over the will. My aunt had always loved dramatic exits, but this felt excessive—even for her. Lawyers, cousins, strangers claiming distant relations… all gathered in her dim, overstuffed parlor. Tick. Tick. Tick— Then silence. I looked up at the grandfather clock she’d polished obsessively. “Did you hear that?” I asked. “Hear what?” my cousin snapped. The lawyer cleared his throat. “As I was saying, the estate will be divided—” The clock chimed. But it didn’t move. Each chime rang out of sync with time, echoing too long, too deep. The room stretched with the sound, like it was being pulled apart. My aunt’s portrait tilted on the wall. Then she stepped out of it. No one reacted. She walked straight to me, her expression unreadable. “You always paid attention,” she said. “I—what is happening?” “They didn’t earn it,” she said, gesturing at the others. “So I gave you the only thing worth inheriting.” She pressed something invisible into my hand. The room snapped back. The clock resumed ticking. The lawyer droned on. “What did you give me?” I whispered. Her voice lingered, though she was gone. “A way out.” I opened my hand. Empty. Of course it was. All things considered, losing the map was the least permanent consequence.