Chapter 16
A year and a half after the fall, Malcolm died.
Natural causes.
No war.
No revenge.
No last confrontation.
Patrick attended the funeral.
I did not.
Declan went briefly.
When he returned, he looked unsettled.
“What?”
He sat across from me.
“Malcolm kept Brielle’s trust documents.”
I frowned.
“Why?”
“Because he always thought she’d come back to the plan.”
My stomach tightened.
Even after failure, he imagined succession through her.
Declan brought me one letter Malcolm had written but never sent.
To Brielle.
Your aunt stole what should have belonged to your branch.
I stopped reading.
Old poison.
Same structure.
Make love competitive.
Make children inherit grievance.
I handed the letter to Brielle.
Not secretly.
Not dramatically.
“Your choice.”
She read the first paragraph.
Then stopped.
“Can I throw it away?”
“Yes.”
She tore it in half.
Then quarters.
Then complained her hands hurt.
Twelve-year-old destruction has limits.
We laughed.
Declan watched.
“You don’t want to keep it?”
“No.”
He looked at me.
“For history?”
Brielle answered before I could.
“I know enough.”
Good.
Not every piece of poison needs archiving.
That evening Finn found the blue toy carabiner in Patrick’s coat.
“Mine.”
Patrick handed it over immediately.
No argument.
No “Grandpa gave.”
No emotional claim.
Finn clipped it to his backpack.
Then forgot about it.
May you like
Objects lose power when adults stop forcing them to carry memory forever.
I learned that slowly.
