“Mikhail, come quickly. Grandpa died last night.”
The hand holding the phone trembled slightly.
The voice of his second cousin Viktor sounded dry, almost indifferent.
“What happened?”
“His heart gave out. At his age, it’s nothing unusual.
The funeral is the day after tomorrow. If you want to say goodbye—come.”
Mikhail clenched his fists. To him, Grandpa Yegor was the only relative who never asked for help, never lectured, and never imposed his opinions.
The next day, he stood in the quiet cemetery of the seaside town.
Not many people had gathered: Viktor with his wife Zoya, a couple of neighbors, and an elderly woman in a black headscarf who cried especially sincerely.
“That’s Anna Vasilievna,” whispered one of the neighbors.
“In recent years, she took care of Grandpa like a daughter.”
After the wake, Viktor pulled Mikhail aside.
“Listen, nephew… Grandpa made a will, but there’s hardly anything in it.
The house is old, the land plot is small—it all came to me, as the eldest in the family.”
Mikhail nodded. He hadn’t expected anything.
“And he left you his fishing boat. It’s called ‘Seagull.’
It’s at the pier—you can take it.”
Zoya snorted:
“That wreck just takes up space.”
“Thank you,” Mikhail said quietly. “Grandpa loved fishing in it.”
“Well, then fish all you want. Just keep in mind—the pier space isn’t free.
Five hundred rubles a month.”
The next morning, Mikhail went to the pier. “Seagull” rocked on the waves—a small wooden boat with peeling blue paint. The name of the grandfather was faded on the stern.
“Nice boat, isn’t it?”
Mikhail turned. An elderly man with a gray beard stood nearby.
“Sergey Petrovich,” he introduced himself.
“I was Yegor Ivanovich’s best friend. My condolences.”
“Thank you. I’m Mikhail, his grandson.”
“I know. Your grandfather spoke of you often. Said you were the only one who visited not for money, but just to see him.”
Mikhail climbed into the boat, inspecting the interior.
Oars, a worn-out net, a few floats. Rain began to drizzle, and he tried to close the hatch in the bow.
The lid was stuck. Mikhail pulled harder—and it gave way, revealing a small compartment.
“Strange…” he muttered.
Inside lay a folder wrapped in oilcloth. With trembling hands, he unwrapped it.
Land ownership certificate. Fifteen hundred square meters.
Location—coastal line, three kilometers from the village. Owner—Yegor Ivanovich Morozov.
Date of registration—1998.
“Sergey Petrovich!” Mikhail called out. “Come look at this!”
The old man whistled:
“Well, would you look at that! So he decided to pass it on to you.”
“You knew about this plot?”
“Of course. Back in ’98, Yegor used his last savings to buy it.
He dreamed of building a small house there, so the family could come relax. But the relatives only came for money.”
“And why didn’t Grandpa tell anyone about the land?”
“He did. He showed the documents to Viktor first.
Viktor just shook his head—said it was old man’s nonsense, what would he need that wasteland for?
The rest of the relatives reacted the same way.”
Carefully putting the papers back, Mikhail said thoughtfully:
“So now I have land by the sea.”
“He used to go there often by boat. Said it was quiet, beautiful, with lots of seagulls.
He dreamed of building a little bathhouse.”
At that moment, Anna Vasilievna approached the pier.
Her eyes were still red from crying.
“Mikhail, is it true what Viktor says—that Grandpa left you only the boat?”
“Not just the boat,” Mikhail showed the documents.
“There’s also land.”
Her eyes widened:
“So that’s what he kept talking about in his last weeks! ‘Mikhail will understand why I needed that land.’”
“Did he say anything else?”
“He said the land should go to someone who would value it, not sell it to the first buyer.”
That evening, Mikhail decided to tell his uncle about the find. Viktor was sitting on the veranda of his two-story house, drinking tea.
“Uncle Vitya, I found land ownership documents in the boat.”
Viktor choked.
“What documents?”
Mikhail handed him the certificate. His uncle’s face turned red quickly.
“Fake,” he hissed. “Grandpa was losing his mind at the end.
Where would he get money for land?”
“These are real documents. All the stamps and signatures are there…”
“I said it’s a fake!” Viktor raised his voice.
“And even if it’s true, there’s no will for that land. So by law, it all passes to me.”
Zoya peeked out from the house:
“Vitya, what’s going on? Why are you yelling?”
“That nephew of mine thinks he’s gonna get rich. Brought some fake papers.”
“I’m not going to argue with anyone,” Mikhail said calmly.
“Just wanted to let you know Grandpa also had land.”
“Listen carefully,” Viktor stood up and took a step forward.
“Tomorrow you go to the city and forget about those stupid papers.
Otherwise, with my connections in the administration, I’ll make it so you won’t even have the boat.”
Mikhail turned and walked away. Behind him, Zoya’s irritated voice rang out:
“We should’ve sold that boat right away. I told you.”
The next day, a stranger in an expensive suit approached Mikhail.
“Aleksandr Yuryevich,” the man introduced himself.
“I heard you have a plot by the shore?”
“How do you know?”
“Viktor Petrovich told me. I buy land for development.
I can offer a good price.”
“It’s not for sale.”
“You don’t even want to hear it? Two million in cash.”
Mikhail’s breath caught. That was three times his yearly income.
“I’ll think about it,” he replied.
“Don’t take too long. Offers like this don’t come twice.”
That evening, Mikhail met with Anna Vasilievna.
“I was offered two million for Grandpa’s land,” he said.
She nodded:
“I know. That Aleksandr has been buying up land here for a while.
Rumor is he’s planning a cottage settlement.”
“What would Grandpa have done? Sold it?”
“No way. Yegor Ivanovich used to say: ‘This land is for the soul, not for profit.’ In his last months, he thought only about it—building a bathhouse, setting up a pier, so family could come visit.”
“I don’t have children.”
“But you will. And someday they’ll ask: where’s Grandpa’s land? What will you tell them?”
Mikhail was silent. Anna was right.
A few days later, Viktor came to him with a folder of documents.
“Here,” he threw the papers on the table. “A lawsuit. I’m contesting your rights to the land.”
Mikhail flipped through them. The legal jargon was unclear, but the meaning was.
“On what grounds?”
“Grandpa wasn’t in his right mind in recent years. There are witnesses.
And besides, where’s the proof he bought that land himself? Maybe someone took advantage of his trust?”
“That’s not true.”
“True or not—that’s for the court to decide. Meanwhile, the land is under arrest. You can’t build or sell.”
After Viktor left, Mikhail got in the boat and headed to the plot.
Half an hour later, he arrived. The beauty struck him— a cozy bay, sheltered from the wind, sandy shore.
He imagined Grandpa sailing here alone, dreaming of a home for the whole family.
And all the family thought about was money.
“Yegor Ivanovich found peace here.”
Mikhail turned. Sergey Petrovich was stepping ashore from his boat.
“How did you find me?”
“Saw where you sailed. Thought I’d stop by. Heard Viktor filed the case?”
“He did. Says Grandpa was insane.”
The old man laughed:
“He remembered everything till the end! Told war stories, recited poems by heart.
Understood paperwork better than any lawyer.”
“Can you tell me how Grandpa bought the land?”
Sergey sat on a fallen tree:
“It was in ’98. He got a big pension for long service.
He’d long dreamed of a place by the sea. Found a cheap plot—no utilities nearby.”
“Did the relatives know?”
“Of course. Viktor came first when Grandpa was signing the papers.
Looked around and said, ‘Uncle, have you lost your mind?
Why do you need this wilderness? Better give me the money for a shop.’”
Mikhail imagined the scene: Grandpa, full of hope, and his nephew, thinking only of profit.
“And how did Grandpa respond?”
“He said, ‘Vitya, money runs out, but land stays.’ And he was right.
Later Viktor came again with Zoya. She just laughed: ‘Old man’s nonsense—buying forest land.’”
Mikhail felt the anger rise within him.
All those years, Grandpa held onto his dream, and his family only mocked him.
“Sergey Petrovich, would you testify in court?
Say Grandpa was of sound mind?”
“Of course, son. But be warned—Viktor won’t give up easily. He’s got connections.”
That same evening, Mikhail got a call from Aleksandr:
“Thought about my offer? Time’s ticking. Viktor already offered to sell through the court.”
“So you’re in cahoots?”
“We’re just businessmen. Solving things peacefully.
Last chance: two and a half million—deal?”
Mikhail hung up.
The trial lasted three months. Viktor brought two witnesses claiming Grandpa was “out of it” in his final years.
But Sergey Petrovich and Anna Vasilievna described in detail how clear-headed Yegor Ivanovich remained until the end.
The key evidence was a medical report—Grandpa underwent regular checkups and showed no signs of mental decline.
The court ruled in Mikhail’s favor.
After the hearing, Viktor approached him:
“So, you won. Proud of yourself? Don’t think this is over.”
“Uncle Vitya,” Mikhail interrupted, “enough.
Grandpa wanted the family to have a place to come together.
Come if you want. But as family, not as owners.”
Viktor scoffed and left.
Six months later, Mikhail built a small bathhouse and a wooden pier on the plot.
On weekends, he came here in Grandpa’s boat, sometimes with Sergey Petrovich, who shared stories from Yegor Ivanovich’s youth.
Anna Vasilievna became a frequent guest—helping with the garden Mikhail planted beside the bathhouse.
Aleksandr called twice more with offers to buy the land, but Mikhail didn’t even answer.
One evening, sitting by the fire on the shore, Mikhail realized: Grandpa didn’t just leave him land.
He gave him a real home—a place to build the future, remember the past, and feel part of something greater.
And “Seagull” rocked by the pier, ready for new fishing adventures.
