the dirt.
I fell to my knees.
Ernest S.
I touched the plaque with my fingertips and cried harder than I had even in prison.
I cried for my mother.
For my father.
For the dying man who had secretly gathered evidence while death closed in—not to recover money, but to save his son.
“I’m here, Dad,” I whispered. “I found you. We won.”
A few weeks later, the court returned the house to me.
I stepped inside only once.
Grace’s expensive furniture was still there, absurdly occupying the space
