Ruby closed the notebook.
Across Aldridge Street, evening sunlight turned the windows gold.
Children rode bicycles along the sidewalk.
Someone upstairs was cooking onions.
A radio played softly through an open window.
Nothing about the building looked extraordinary.
It was still old.
Still imperfect.
Still full of people arguing about laundry schedules, hallway noise, parking spaces, maintenance bills, and whose turn it was to sweep the front steps.
But it belonged to them.
Not because one billionaire had rescued them.
Not because Ruby had discovered a hidden fortune.
Not because Eleanor Bennett had secretly arranged everything twelve years earlier.
It belonged to them because enough people, across enough years, had made enough difficult choices to create another chance.
Claire came outside.
“Ruby, dinner.”
“What are we having?”
“Spaghetti.”
“With mushrooms?”
“Yes.”
Ruby groaned.
Caleb appeared behind Claire.
“I voted against mushrooms.”
“You don’t get a vote,” Claire said.
“I was told this was a democracy.”
