It was 5:11 in the evening. Gran hummed along to the morning symphony playing on the dusty gramophone. Habit, like a well-oiled gear, propelled him through his day. The two German Shepherds, Kaiser and Gretchen, received their kibble at this time, punctuating the quiet with excited yips. A voice called him by his name, a quite familiar one. Igneous Albus.

Gran had been Mr. Albus', informally known by many as Igneous', caretaker for twenty years. The old philanthropist, a man who'd dedicated his life to uplifting the downtrodden, is nothing now but a corpse waiting for his demise; a man without a heir for his millions.

Like clockwork, the most trusted caretaker arrives on the scene, neatly dressed, prim and proper. A well-groomed mustache and a snappy pair of white gloves on his hands emphasizing the black watch on the left.

"What is the reason you seek me, my Lord?" he asked.

"Gran, you have well-served me for a decade.", the old man looked eye-to-eye with his subject. "Will you serve me more twice that number if time motes it?"

"I have nowhere to return to, this is my life.", as if the scene wasn't comforting enough, the servant replied with a pleasant smile.

"I will die tomorrow.", the old billionaire spoke with a sure tone. Igneous was a philanthropist who was known for his compassion and generosity. He was a kind and wise individual, and he was well respected in the community. However, he was also known to be odd and unusual, deciding out-of-the-box things, acting as if it was only a piece of cake. He has spoke so many unusual things before that Gran hadn't flinched when he spoke of his death; it seemed insignificant compared to everything Igneous has done. "Please speak nothing about my death. This is my final command."

Gran couldn't do anything but nod. After they spoke, not a word left Igneous mouth once more. It pertains to the fact that, it really was his final command.

On that fateful evening, the caretaker, loyal and devoted as ever, had retired to his quarters after completing his nightly routine. Little did he know that fate had something far more sinister in store. A huge thud can be heard away from his barracks.

He quickly changed to proper outfit, though informal, he had to rush to his master. As the clock struck midnight, a piercing silence shattered the stillness of the mansion, echoing through its hallowed halls like a lament. Rushing to investigate, the caretaker found Igneous' lifeless body on the mansion's library, sprawled on the floor of his study, surrounded by the trappings of his wealth and the relics of his mysterious pursuits. His head, decapitated, with not a single evidence to point anyone to be the culprit.

He couldn't do anything but call for law enforcement at that time.

Gran remained silent throughout the entire investigation. Nothing could be extracted from him, not a single word. Please speak nothing about my death. Igneous' last command would tattoo on his conscience.

The cause of Igneous' demise remained a subject of speculation, whispered about in hushed tones among the townsfolk. Some claimed it was the result of a botched experiment, while others whispered of dark forces at play, unseen and unknowable. However, despite everything that could have possibly be thought upon, nothing could point it out or rule to be Gran's doing. For one, not a single fingerprint or any print for that matter could point that other than Igneous entered the library. Two, all lethal weapons, including the guns, knives, katana, could not justify the head decapitation. And three, the most odd of all things, a written statement from Igneous himself, with his attorney, mentioned to never blame Gran for his death. All fingers that could lead to Gran could never be fully erect.

On the day of Igneous' burial, as mourners, which mere minimal at that time, gathered to bid farewell to the philanthropist, a letter arrived from the mad billionaire's lawyer. The timing was as unexpected as it was curious, adding a pinch worth of intrigue to an already somber occasion. The caretaker, ever faithful in his duties, received the letter with a sense of apprehension mingled with curiosity. With trembling hands, he broke the wax seal and unfolded the parchment, his eyes scanning the words penned by Igneous himself. What he read could not provoke an emotion out of him.

Take care of my mansion. I will still pay you handsomely even after my death. Live well and feed my dogs. I leave the serenity of my home to you. Signed, Igneous Albus.

As the funeral procession made its way to the cemetery, the loyal caretaker found himself torn between duty and destiny. Should he honor Igneous' final wishes? He broke a chuckle. That has always been the plan.

He is a caretaker of a dead philanthropist with no heir, and when the he died, only Gran mourned truly his death. He didn't expect anything much but the only letter the dead philanthropist gave him was to take care of his mansion to his death to which the he gladly obeyed.

As loam covered the philanthropist's casket, Gran glanced at the horizon, seemingly visualizing the life he's going to have, a timed, pleasant, peaceful, tranquil, and a good years until his final breath as he follows his late master down the musty grave he's in.

For 20 years, Gran purposefully took care of the mansion with routine-like clockwork. As promised by the late Igneous, monthly payment just uploads to his bank account from an anonymous account, probably a preplanned payment by the philanthropist when he was still living. Indeed, the letter didn't lie. He was truly paid handsomely, thrice the amount he was paid when the dead billionaire was still living, and even then, it was still a generous amount.

At 8 in the morning, he wakes up, prepares himself, irons his clothes, and then picks some fruits from the backyard and eats it as breakfast. Sometimes, he cooks himself some cherry pie, sometimes it's pickled vegetables, and occasionally some fancy French recipe he read at isle 7 at the mansion's library. Soon, at 9 in the morning, he cleans the rooms and feeds the dogs; at 10, he cleans the lobby, and at 11am, he cleans the hallways.

When the sun hits its apex at 12 in the afternoon, he eats lunch cooked by his own hands. Though if there's nothing to eat, he goes to the city and procure some food that's enough to last him for days or until he needs something to cook and consume.

He has been clockwork, loyal and wise. at 1 in the afternoon, he reads the books from the library as he cleans it, dusting the books while reading each panel carefully from the long and high varnished oak bookrack he uses a sturdy acacia ladder to reach. At 3, he cleans again all the places he usually doesn't swab, and if there's nothing to sponge or polish anymore, he proceeds to do the laundry which only includes his own clothes and some fabrics that belonged to the late philanthropist which includes but not limited to pillowcases and curtains.

The story has been taken without consent; if you see it on Amazon, report the incident.

At 4 in the afternoon, he waters the garden, catering to every plant that might rot in the process and carefully treating any disease that may affect their health and overall aesthetic; at 5, he feeds the dogs a combination of meat and carrots. At 6 in the evening, he listens to his favorite radio show Show Shack, a fictional mystery-comedy show. At 7, he tidies up everything, which includes himself. Then at 8, he lights a candle for the dead philanthropist. And finally, at 9, he sleeps. He has done this for the past 20 years, an unbroken routine; mourning only when the dogs died 5 years and 7 years in to which he remembers their memory with the late philanthropist at 8 in the evening. He has no family. he has nothing aside from this house.

I am content. He tells himself. A never-ending cycle of loyalty. A continuous cycle of maintaining the mansion, reading books, learning new recipes, and meeting new people he probably won't remember when he goes to town scavenging for food. With all honestly, despite the millions in his bank, he couldn't even find a way to spend it due to his hectic yet tranquil schedule. He has realized that he himself might also have the potential to become a philanthropist if he leaves the mansion he has taken care of for the couple of decades.

However, why would he even leave? Everything he needs has already been provided in the mansion. He has food, shelter, water, entertainment, and more so than ever, he has a social life whenever he goes to town. He's alone, but not lonely. He may be lacking many factors that constitutes a modern man, but he's content. He can, and he considers it a possible scenario, leave the mansion and go buy a secluded island and live there in luxury with his monthly income, and yes, he's earning more than your average downtown CEO. But, why would he?

Gran is a simple man with simple goals. He was born in an orphanage and was adopted by Igneous' former maid that couldn't conceive, and later on, promoted as a servant. Some may ask, where are the other servants? Well, to be frank, Igneous was an odd man that only had a one or two-person capacity in his mansion excluding him. So, when Gran's mother died from cancer, he remained as the only servant in the huge mansion.

Why didn't Gran hire some servants to help him out in his chores for 20 years? Well, you'd expect an answer from Gran that he didn't need some help at all, he could do all tasks alone, and for him, he's more productive alone. Wouldn't you get annoyed when you're aware of a presence when you're just reading in peace. He is a servant, and it would be odd if for some reason, suddenly, he becomes a master. For him, it is a blasphemy for Igneous, which owned the mansion.

He had already has his life planned out. What now? You may ask. The correct answer, well, for Gran, at least, is the same thing that he did everyday for the past decades. However, life had a different answer for that, and it is something even Gran himself would struggle to accept, let alone... like.

One day, at 9 in the morning, contrary to his routine, a letter arrived. The sound of the doorbell seemed almost alien to Gran. Imagine not hearing that particular sound of doorbell he only used to hear when Igneous had a visitor from the state or a faraway relative dared to visit which only happened twice in his lifetime. After dusting some old pile of unused monocles, he slowly walked down the carpeted stairs, the sound of his leather shoes bumping the ground echoing throughout the mansion.

He held on the gold-plated handle of the birch door and opened it only to see a wax-sealed letter on the carpet below him. The letter smelled that of a warm coffee, a hint of mocha which overpowered the rose-scented wax which closed the envelope. Gran leaned and picked the letter and inspected its external image. The letter had no visible stamp which meant it probably wasn't sent via any public courier, thus, it could imply that it wasn't foreign, and if it was, it must must be important to be sent personally through a proxy.

A red ink can be seen behind it, written to be as Lisez-le s'il vous plaît which was French for... Gran didn't know, he never learned French. However, he could deduce one thing, it may be related to Igneous as only the philanthropist, as he remembered, could speak French. Under the red ink was his name Gran White, to which he could assume that the letter was for him.

He slowly opened the letter, not breaking the wax seal which locked it. It was written in a low-grade paper, and with it, a text written by a text writer. Technology has advanced so much, how come it was still in this kind of quality? Grand thought. Could it be written decades ago? An intentionally delayed delivery?

He read the header, and to his surprise, it was signed by the philanthropist himself. "You have passed.", the letter dictated. The letter was folded into fourths and the remaining content relied on the last quadrant. As he opens it, the letter reveals more...

"Grab a gun.", the letter said. Gran discombobulating and was in a state of whether or not to take the letter as real or fake. However, he was quite sure that the signature was legitimate and it wasn't something a fool could replicate. And another thing, why would somebody imitate a person that passed on 20 years ago. Though conflicted, he continued reading as he unfolded the lower quadrant of the uncanny letter. "Stop cleaning the house and don't eat for the day. Stay in the library and lock all the doors. At 5:49 in the afternoon, sit in the middle of my library, face west. Focus on that blue book. aim the gun. at, 5:50, pull the trigger.", concluded the letter.

Could it be from his master? Something from the past? Or a troll. Anything could be the answer, but he was leaning towards the letter's legitimacy. First and foremost, nobody could replicate how eerie and absurd Igneous' time frames were. Contrary to what people might associate him with, but he used to wake up at exactly 6:53 in the morning and brush his teeth at 7:49 after eating breakfast for 21 minutes.

He did so as the letter told him. For 20 years, he broke his routine. He didn't eat nor move more than a meter after he locked all the mansion's doors and windows. Gran secluded himself in the library facing west; his black watch ticking as he awaited for the time to reach as the letter said.

He already knew where Igneous' shotgun was hidden, below the plank on the library's main door; originally, he didn't know, but more than 30 years of serving in a mansion could show you enough secrets even the owner could forget they had planted in the first place. The clock was ticking, the showtime was near.

Gran readied himself with a multitool attached to his belt, a compass with it. He was truly facing West without any doubts. He retracted the safety of the gun and aimed it at one of the aquamarine books titled "Here." which was odd considering how of all the blue-tinted books that could have been there, it was titled that way. Gran never rearranged the books and placed it as is 20 years ago, I guess it bore the fruit of greatness.

It was 49 minutes past 5 and he readied himself, though he was unsure of what he was aiming for, he just prepared for the best. Gran never really received any proper gun training, especially on how to handle it, but he did read a book about it, so we was well-versed about it in theory, but only in theory. One thing, however, could be used to his advantage. He did know how to use a crossbow. We don't know how that information is useful for this matter, but the micro-skills required in learning that weapon would drastically help Gran's aim... I think... Gran thinks so too as well.

It was milliseconds before 5:50, he took a deep breath waiting for his watch to tick that one bit of long arm left. It was 5:50! Gran pulled the trigger. A silver bullet escaped the gun's nozzle and into a mass in front of him. Initially, it was invisible, but soon enough when the silver bullet pierced something hard, it manifested into... a creature!

Of course, Gran's hand couldn't have possibly countered the recoil and he was pushed back as he pulled the gun's trigger, he squinted. As he quickly opened his eyes, an unknown creature, tentacled and feathery was shot on its heart. Three eyes, and no mouth, it was staring at him, begging for mercy, but at the same time the bloodthirsty aura it had was prominent. The shot in the hear was lethal, the creature fell down to the library's carpet and dimmed its vision. The monster-looking organism had twice the size as Gran and was not usual.

Gran didn't know what to do. He shot a monster, what did you expect him to do? Clean it all up? Well, he did try. But, he did the most human thing to do after this point. He panicked. But, yes, he did try to clean the monstrous corpse, but still... he was panicking while doing it...