And the man who swore he would never risk his heart again calls me his home.

Agatha wanted a legacy. She wanted a name carried forward, a house handed down, a son to prove her line had mattered.

She has a cell now, and a name no one says with respect, and no one at all who visits.

I have three daughters, a husband who chose us on purpose, and a building full of people who are safe tonight because of three little girls she said were worth nothing.

If a legacy is the mark you leave on the world after you, then she got hers, and I got mine, and mine is made of light.

THE END.