You pick up Robert’s fountain pen, the one from the cedar box, and sign the first page of a new publishing contract.
Your hand is steady.
Not young.
Not unscarred.
Steady.
And that is enough.
Because your granddaughter thought you were in the way.
She was right about one thing.
You were in the way.
You were in the way of theft.
In the way of greed.
In the way of a lie dressed up as succession.
In the way of people who thought age made you invisible.
But by sunrise, you remembered the truth they had all forgotten.
You were not standing in their way.”
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