Page 188 of Reeves

"No, I'm loving this time with you. Let's keep going."

The water continues its predictable pattern of approaching, retreating, and approaching again.

Mom smiles, and we fall back into step beside each other, the waves rolling in and out at our feet.

There's nothing to rush back for.

FORTY-FOUR

Reeves

The Decision:The tradition exists because someone, in the middle of grief, chose to keep walking and let the music change around them.

The cufflinks clinkon the hard-polished wood table. I sign my name for what feels like the fiftieth time, my hand moving across the paper.

The closing attorney, a man with salt-and-pepper hair and wire-rimmed glasses, passes another document across the table. I can tell he’s been itching to get into small talk with me, but I don’t give him an inch.

"Stone." He sets down his pen. "As in Stone Intermodal?"

And so he takes it anyway. Goddammit.

"As in I'd like to finish the paperwork."

"Just need your signature on this one too, Mr. Stone," he says, tapping a blue tab.

I scan the paragraph, pen poised. It’s about property taxes, but those are minor details that the accountant will parse. I sign, then slide it back.

"So you were a Navy SEAL?" The attorney leans back in hischair, clearly fishing for conversation to fill the silence. Here it comes. "That must have been quite the experience."

I keep my face neutral. "It was a job."

"I've always been fascinated by special operations. The training alone sounds brutal."

"It is." I don't elaborate. I always get annoyed when complete strangers learn what I do. Or, what I did.

The attorney shuffles more papers, not taking the hint. "What made you decide to retire? If you don't mind my asking."

I meet his eyes directly. "It was time."

I glance down at the document in front of me, then add, “Shoulder injury. And I’ve got a son I’d rather not miss any more who turns six next week.”

The attorney nods, his curiosity seemingly satisfied as he slides the final document toward me. "This is the last one. Once you sign here, the house is officially yours."

I take a deep breath, not because I'm nervous, but because the weight of this moment deserves acknowledgment.

I could have sent a POA. All of my brothers handle acquisitions this way, signing half their deals through attorneys without ever entering a room. I drove forty-five minutes and sat across from a man who wanted to small-talk about bullshit because this transaction wasn't one I wanted handled at arm's length.

A house. My house. Not a generic condo in a high-rise in a city that I have no connection to, or my father's place. Mine.

"Congratulations, Mr. Stone." The attorney reaches into a drawer and produces a set of keys. He slides them across the polished table surface.

I take the keys, noticing their weight in my palm before pocketing them. There's no fanfare needed, but there is a shift inside about what this means.

I've bought vehicles that cost more than this house. I'vesigned checks that would make this closing look like a grocery receipt. None of that ever felt like anything.

This is different. This is the first thing I've bought because I wanted to stay somewhere, not because I needed to be ready to leave.

"Is there anything else?" I ask, already standing.