“Your grandmother believed in you. She spent the last three years of her life preparing for this moment. The question is—do you believe in yourself?” he asked.

I looked at the will in my hands, at the elegant signature of the woman who’d held my hand under Christmas tables and taught me to read contracts like architecture.

“I’ll call you tomorrow,” I said. “We’re requesting that board meeting.”

Woods allowed himself a small smile. “She said you would,” he said.

That night, back in my cramped apartment, I finally opened the wooden box.

My roommates were asleep. The only light came from the streetlamp outside my window, laying orange stripes across my bed, where I sat cross-legged with the box in my lap.