That stayed with me longer than anything else.
A year later, I stood in the chapel garden where my parents rested and placed the urn permanently beside them, engraving the name Sol beneath my family name.
“I kept it,” I whispered, not just the business or the house, but the part of me that still believed in rebuilding after destruction.
That night, I stood in my kitchen eating a slice of lemon cake while the city moved around me, and for the first time in a long time, my name felt like something I owned completely.
It was enough.
The End.
