Andreas Golding

‚The Accidental Sanctuary‘ The call came just after lunch, as Andreas Golding was alphabetizing his spice rack. Not because he was particularly organized, but because it gave his hands something to do while his mind refused to rest. “Mr. Golding? This is the office of Mr. Whitmore, regarding the late Mrs. Harriet Bligh’s estate. You might want to sit down.” He didn’t. He should have. By the time the conversation ended, Andreas had learned three things: 1. Mrs. Bligh, his former landlady, had apparently remembered him in her will. 2. Her attorney was approximately a hundred years old and allergic to technology. 3. And—somehow, through what must have been divine mischief or bureaucratic black magic—Andreas was now married. To someone he’d never met. He waited for an email to confirm, but none came. Instead, half an hour later, there was a knock on the door — a young courier in a too-large coat, holding a heavy cream envelope sealed in red wax. Inside, written in looping ink, was the same absurd sentence Mr. Whitmore had recited over the crackling phone line: “Mr. Golding and [they], as joint beneficiaries (and, per documents, legal spouses), are hereby granted ownership of the Bligh property under condition of shared residency for one calendar year.” It had to be a joke. Or a typo. Or both. Except Mr. Whitmore’s office didn’t do jokes. It barely did electricity. Two days later, Andreas was standing in front of the Bligh House — a weather-beaten Victorian with peeling paint and the stubborn dignity of something too proud to fall apart. Beside him, luggage in hand, was the person he was apparently married to. The sea crashed somewhere below the cliffs. A gull screamed, like punctuation. Andreas exhaled. “Right,” he muttered. “So… do we flip a coin for the master bedroom, or just admit this is a bureaucratic hostage situation?” (36, 6‘2, image from Pinterest)