<h1><strong>The Inheritance Letter</strong></h1><h2><strong>Chapter 3: The Collector's Legacy</strong></h2><p>The stone steps descended in a tight spiral, forcing Eliza to keep one hand against the damp wall for balance. Her phone's flashlight cast wild, jumping shadows as she moved deeper beneath the manor. The air grew colder with each step, carrying an earthy scent tinged with something she couldn't quite identify—something like old leather and metal polish and dried flowers, all mingled together.</p><p>The scratching sound had stopped, but the silence that replaced it felt watchful, as if the darkness itself were holding its breath. Twice Eliza paused, certain she heard soft footfalls behind her, only to turn and find nothing but empty stairwell fading into blackness.</p><p>After what seemed like far too many steps for a mere basement, the staircase ended at a heavy wooden door bound with iron. No handle, no lock—just a small metal plate at eye level. Eliza ran her fingers over it, feeling etched symbols similar to those on the key her grandmother had sent.</p><p>On impulse, she pressed the key against the plate. It adhered as if magnetized, and the door swung inward with a sigh of displaced air.</p><p>Eliza hesitated at the threshold. Every instinct warned her to turn back, to retreat to the relative safety of the manor above. But the mystery of what her grandmother had hidden pulled at her more strongly than fear.</p><p>She stepped through the doorway.</p><p>Her flashlight beam seemed swallowed by the vastness beyond. Eliza swept it across the space, struggling to make sense of what she was seeing. The room was enormous—far larger than should have been possible given the footprint of the manor above. Its ceiling disappeared into shadow despite her light, and its perimeter stretched beyond the beam's reach in all directions.</p><p>But it was what filled the space that stole her breath.</p><p>Shelves. Hundreds of shelves arranged in concentric circles around a central pedestal. And on those shelves, illuminated one by one as she panned her light across them, were thousands of objects—each one meticulously labeled and displayed as in a museum.</p><p>Eliza moved forward cautiously, examining the nearest shelf. A child's teddy bear, worn with love and age, sat beside a small card reading Timothy Wells