Mara’s POVA year later, the Voss property reopened.I kept the original wooden doors and gray brick walls.The ground floor became a free restoration classroom for young artists who couldn’t afford private training.The second floor remained untouched.My father’s books, photographs, clothes, and personal belongings stayed exactly where I’d left them.The broken wooden table still stood beside the window.The restorer had repaired it carefully, filling the deepest crack with gold.I hadn’t asked him to hide it. Something being repaired didn’t mean it had never been broken.On opening day, the old neighbors filled the courtyard with flowers.Alfred walked in carrying two cups of coffee.“There’s someone waiting at the gate.”I didn’t have to ask who.Soren stood at the mouth of the alley.He didn’t come inside.Over the past year, he’d sold the last of his remaining shares and used part of the money to compensate the artists whose work had been stolen through Calloway Arts & Holdings.
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