It was a video.

And there was my grandfather, sitting in his study in his old gray cardigan, looking directly into the camera, alive again for as long as the file ran.

“Fiona,” he said, and his familiar voice filled that small locked office, and my throat closed.

“If you are watching this, then it happened.

They finally chose greed over you, plainly enough that even you could no longer explain it away.

I am sorry.