I looked through the window at Arthur’s dark porch.

Turning his home into something public felt like a betrayal at first.

He had been private, meticulous about his books and belongings.

Yet Evelyn’s notebook suggested the house had once been a welcoming place, and Arthur’s letter urged me to use the inheritance to make choices.

“We’ll ask what’s possible,” I said.

“But we can’t promise anything yet.”

Maya smiled.

It was a relief not to be the only adult in the room who remembered budgets and permits.