The junior employee from the lobby—her name was Priya Shah—stood outside my door at five with a folder she had been afraid to carry for months: notes on vendors that never produced work, stairwell complaints, a list of people who had left after crossing Camila.

I thanked her and put the folder in the freeze.

Courage that arrives late is still courage.

That night I stayed in a hotel rather than the apartment I had shared with Alexander.

The skyline looked the same.

The marriage did not.