Chapter 13 - THE SILENT PASSING
Six months into my tenure in the void,
the Chaplain came to see me.
He didn't have to say a word.
I saw the look in his eyes—the practiced,
somber empathy of a man who delivers bad news for a living.
"It’s your mother,
Julian,"
he said,
his voice soft against the harsh echoes of the visiting room.
"She passed away in her sleep last night."
The news hit me with a dull thud,
like a heavy book falling in an empty library.
I thought of her in that hospital bed,
or perhaps in her grand house,
surrounded by the ghosts of the lies she had told for me.
I thought of the last time I saw her,
the way she looked at me with such profound disappointment.
"The funeral?"
I asked,
though I knew the answer.
"The warden has denied the request for a furlough,"
the Chaplain replied.
"Given the nature of your crimes and the flight risk,
you won't be permitted to attend."
I nodded,
the numbness spreading through my limbs.
I wouldn't be there to say goodbye to the only person who had tried to love me,
however flawed that love had been.
I wouldn't be there to see her buried beside the husband she had tried to reinvent and the son she had tried to save.
A week later,
a package arrived from her estate attorney.
It wasn't much.
A small box of photographs.
A signet ring that had belonged to my father.
And a final letter,
written in her shaky,
elegant script.
"Julian,"
it said.
"I leave you what is left of the family history.
There is no money,
my son.
The legal fees and the restitution have taken everything.
The house is being sold to cover the debts you left behind.
I hope you find peace,
but I fear you only know how to find power.
I spent my life trying to give you a name to be proud of.
I am sorry I failed.
But more than that,
I am sorry you never realized that a name is only as good as the man who wears it.
I have asked Claire to take one thing from my house before the liquidators arrive.
It is the old clock from the hallway.
I want Noah to hear the ticking of time,
to know that every second is a choice.
I hope he makes better choices than we did."
I held the signet ring in my hand,
the gold cold and heavy.
The "Carter" legacy was officially dead.
The wealth was gone.
The property was gone.
The only thing left of our family was a clock in a house I would never visit,
telling time for a boy who would never know my face.
I spent the night staring at the photos of my childhood—the staged smiles,
the expensive clothes,
the hollow perfection.
I saw the boy I used to be,
before I learned that the world could be manipulated.
I wanted to reach into the paper and warn him.
I wanted to tell him that the gold would turn to lead.
May you like
But the boy in the photo just kept smiling,
oblivious to the man in the orange jumpsuit who was mourning him.
