The phone rang just as Elliot Row was standing by the stove. The omelet was sizzling appetizingly in the pan, filling the air with the aroma of garlic and butter. Elliot wiped his hands on a towel and looked at the number — unknown.
“Hello?” he said shortly, without taking his eyes off the dish.
“Mr. Row, this is your family’s notary. You must come to my office tomorrow morning. It’s about an inheritance. Documents need to be signed.”
Elliot was surprised — his parents were alive and well. He didn’t ask unnecessary questions, just nodded, as if the caller could see it, and hung up.
The morning was foggy, the city wrapped in a gray veil. On the way to the notary’s office, Elliot felt confused, which soon turned into unease. The man was already waiting for him at the entrance:
“I understand this all sounds unexpected. But if it were a routine matter, I wouldn’t bother you.”
Inside, it was unusually quiet. A place usually full of life now echoed only with the sound of footsteps on the wooden floor.
“It’s about your uncle — Walter Jonas,” the notary said.
“I don’t have an uncle by that name,” Elliot replied immediately.
But still, he left you all his property,” the man said, placing an old key, a yellowed map, and a piece of paper with an address in front of him. “It’s a house standing on the water. It now belongs to you.”
The house was located in the middle of Lake Konoma in Connecticut. Elliot had never heard of such a place, nor of such an uncle. But something nudged him — that particular feeling when curiosity wins over doubt. An hour later, he was already on the road.
The lake turned out to be astonishingly calm. In the middle, as if rising from the water, stood a large, old house. In a local café, he tried to ask some older men:
“Excuse me, do you know who used to live in that house in the middle of the lake?”
One of them looked away.
“We don’t talk about that house. We don’t go there. It should’ve disappeared many years ago.”
At a boat rental place called “Boats at June’s,” a tired-faced woman looked at him closely.
“I inherited that house. I need a boat,” Elliot said, handing over the key.
“No one goes there,” she replied quietly. “That place awakens fear in many. In me too.
But he didn’t back down. In the end, she agreed:
“I’ll take you. But I won’t wait. I’ll come back tomorrow.”
The house towered over the water like a forgotten fortress. The door opened with a long creak. Inside, it smelled of dust and freshness at the same time. Sunlight filtered through the curtains; portraits hung on the walls. One of them caught his attention in particular — a man on the lake shore, the same house behind him. The caption: Walter Jonas, 1964.
In the library — shelves full of books with notes in the margins. In the study — a telescope and notebooks with observation logs, the last one from just a month ago. In the bedroom — dozens of stopped clocks, and on the dresser — a locket with a photo of a baby and the inscription: “Row.”
On the mirror hung a note: “Time reveals what has been forgotten.”
In old newspapers, in a box from the attic, he found a clipping with a note: “Boy from Middletown missing, found alive.” Year: 1997. Elliot turned pale — it was him.
That night, he couldn’t sleep for a long time. His head was full of questions: Who was Walter Jonas? Why had no one ever mentioned him? And what role did he play in his life?
Late at night, he heard a noise. With a flashlight, he went downstairs and behind a tapestry he noticed a metal door. It led down, beneath the house, under the water. There was a long corridor with drawers, and among them, one labeled “Row.” Inside — letters addressed to his father:
“I tried. Why are you silent? This is important for him. For Elliot…”
At the end of the corridor — a door with a sign: “For Elliot Row only.”
The door opened. Inside, he found letters.
“Hello, Elliot. If you’re reading this, it means I’m already gone. My name is Walter Jonas. I am your biological father.”
He wrote that he and Elliot’s mother had been scientists. The mother died during childbirth, and he, frightened, gave the child to his brother to raise in safety. But he had watched him all along — from afar.
“You’ve grown into a good, strong man. Better than I could have imagined. This house now belongs to you. I’m sorry for the silence and the fear. I was always nearby, even if invisible.”
Elliot sat in silence for a long time, then went back upstairs.
The next morning, a boat was waiting for him. June frowned:
“Is everything alright?”
“It is now. I’ve understood a lot.”
At home, he talked with his parents. They listened in silence. His mother whispered:
“Forgive us. We thought it was for the best.”
“Thank you,” he replied. “I know it wasn’t easy.”
A few weeks later, he returned to the house. Not to live there, but to breathe new life into it. He opened the Center for Climate and History Research. Children ran through the hallways, neighbors came with smiles. The house, once full of secrets, became a place of knowledge and discovery.
