Chapter One Hundred Fifteen: The Passing

My father died on a Sunday.

I wasn't there. I was at home. Adrian was making breakfast. I was sitting at the island, reading a report from Sarah, when my phone buzzed.

Cecilia. I answered.

"He's gone," she said.

I didn't respond.

"He passed an hour ago. In his sleep. He wasn't alone. I was there."

I set the phone down. I looked at Adrian. He looked at me. He didn't ask what had happened. He could see it on my face.

"My father died," I said.

He set down the pan. He walked to me. He didn't reach for me. He didn't take my hand. He just stood there.

"I'm sorry," he said.

I didn't respond. I didn't know how.

---

The funeral was small.

Just me. Just Daniel. Just Adrian. Just Cecilia. A few others who had known him before he disappeared. It was a graveside service. No church. No reception. He'd asked for it that way. Cecilia told me he'd written it down years ago.

Daniel stood beside me. He didn't speak. He didn't cry. He just stood there.

The minister said a few words. He didn't know my father. He'd never met him. He just read from a card. A few lines about a man who had lived and loved and lost.

I didn't listen. I just looked at the coffin. At the earth. At the sky.

Afterward, Daniel and I stayed behind. The others left. Adrian waited by the car.

"I don't know what I feel," Daniel said.

I looked at him. He looked at me.

"I thought I'd feel something. Relief. Or anger. Or sadness. But I don't feel anything."

I didn't respond.

"Is that wrong?"

"No," I said.

He nodded. He looked at the grave. At the earth. At the sky.

"We should go," he said.

We walked back to the car. We drove home.

---

Cecilia called again that evening.

She said there were things to collect. Things he'd left behind. Things he'd wanted us to have. She said she'd packed them in boxes. She said we could come by whenever we were ready.

I told her we'd come the next morning.

---

The apartment was small.

Two rooms. A kitchen. A window that looked out at a brick wall. It smelled like dust and old paper and something I couldn't name. Cecilia met us at the door. She didn't speak. She just stepped aside.

Three boxes sat on the table. Cecilia had labeled them. Elena. Daniel. Both.

Daniel took the box with his name. He sat on the couch and opened it. I took mine. I sat on the floor and opened it.

Photographs. Letters. A watch that didn't work. A pocketknife. A key that didn't fit anything I recognized. And a journal. Small. Leather-bound. Worn.

I opened the journal. His handwriting. Slanted. Neat. The same handwriting from the folder he'd given me. The same handwriting from the letter Volkov had sent.

I read the first page.

I'm leaving today. I don't know if I'll ever see them again. I don't know if I'll ever come back. But I have to go. I have to try to make it right. For Margaret. For Elena. For Daniel.

I closed the journal. I set it down.

Daniel was watching me. He was holding a photograph. Him and me. Children. Standing in front of a house I barely remembered.

"He kept this," he said.

I didn't respond.

"I thought he forgot about us. I thought he didn't care. But he kept this."

I looked at the photograph. At our faces. At our smiles. At the life we'd had before everything fell apart.

"He cared," I said. "He just didn't know how to show it."

Daniel nodded. He didn't say anything else.

We sat there. The apartment was quiet. The city hummed outside. The clock ticked.

After a while, Daniel said, "I'm glad you're my sister."

I looked at him. He looked at me.

"I'm glad you're my brother," I said.

He nodded. He put the photograph in his pocket. He stood.

"Let's go home," he said.

We walked to the car. We drove home.

---

That night, I found Adrian on the balcony.

He was standing at the railing. The city stretched out in front of him. The sun had set. The lights were on.

I stood beside him. He didn't turn.

"He kept photographs," I said. "Of us. Of Daniel. Of everything."

He didn't respond.

"He kept a journal. He wrote about us. About leaving. About trying to make it right."

He turned. He looked at me.

"He cared," I said. "He just didn't know how to show it."

He looked at me. He looked at me the way he had a hundred times before.

"That's enough," he said.

I looked at the city. At the lights. At the sky.

"Okay," I said.

The city hummed below us. A siren wailed in the distance. A light flickered on a far-off building. I listened to the sounds of the night.

He didn't reach for me. I didn't reach for him. We stood at the railing, two people who had spent years chasing the same ghost, and watched the city breathe.

Tomorrow, the headlines would run. Tomorrow, the world would move on.

But tonight, the balcony was quiet, and the sky was clear, and for once, I didn't want to be anywhere else.