I turned. Greg stood five feet away. No swagger. Shoulders slumped, eyes down at the carpet.

“I came to say I’m sorry,” he mumbled to the floor. “For everything. For the Fourth of July. For the money. For the years I treated you like garbage.”

He looked up, hoping for the easy absolution I’d always provided. Hoping a few whispered words in the shadows would erase a decade of public humiliation.

I looked at him and felt nothing at all. The silence stretched between us until the thing he was avoiding became the only object in the room.

I didn’t smile. I didn’t reach out. I stood at parade rest, hands clasped behind my back, the bronze and the violet catching the dim hallway light.

“A private apology for a public execution is cowardice, Greg,” I said. My voice was quiet, echoing off the marble.