Before leaving, I placed an envelope on a desk.

“I don’t need it,” he said.

“I know. It’s not for you. It’s for the beginning.”

That night, I stood on my balcony, looking at the city lights. A message arrived from Arthur, my father’s old friend.

Everything is finalized. The transfer is complete.

I thought about the woman I had been five years earlier, quietly calculating how much she could give without breaking herself. I had mistaken self-erasure for love. I had called fear kindness. I had filled everyone else’s empty spaces until I forgot my own life was waiting for me.

I typed back:

Thank you. I’m ready.

Then I put the phone away and stayed there in the soft night air.

The city lights did not go out.

Neither did I.