I stood behind the central cutting table, where the red silk dress sat carefully mounted inside a museum-quality glass display case.
“I didn’t keep it out of spite, Caleb,” I said calmly. “I kept it because your father spent forty years inside these walls pouring his heart into his work while mourning the daughter he couldn’t save.”
Caleb stopped in front of the glass display case, staring at his twin sister’s red dress. For the first time, the cold, corporate armor he wore seemed to crack.
“He abandoned us,” Caleb murmured, his voice suddenly sounding less like a powerful developer and more like a hurt child. “After the fire… he couldn’t even look at me.”
“He didn’t abandon you because he didn’t love you, Caleb,” I said gently, sliding a small, faded photograph across the counter toward him.
It was a photo I had found in the back of Julian’s journal—a picture of a young Julian holding a little boy on his shoulders outside this very shop, both of them laughing under the afternoon sun. On the back, in Julian’s handwriting, were the words: My boy Caleb. My greatest hope.
