It was a Tuesday afternoon when the rain finally stopped in the city.

I stood by the floor-to-ceiling windows of my new office on the top floor of Harlan Media.

The name on the glass door had been changed from Harlan Media to Shelby Group.

On my desk lay the morning edition of the financial ledger.

Our stock had stabilized, and the public relation crisis was finally behind us.

My assistant, Sarah, walked in carrying a cardboard box.

“This was found in the basement storage, Shelby,” she said, placing it on the desk. “It belongs to you.”

I opened the box.

Inside was my old leather sketchpad from college, stained with water but intact.

Beside it was the silver watch my father had given me before he passed away.

Jared had told me both were lost in the fire at our summer cabin four years ago.

I touched the cool metal of the watch, winding the stem until I heard the faint, steady ticking.

The physical pain from my accident was still there, a dull ache in my left hip when the weather turned cold.

But my hands were steady now.

I looked out over the gray skyline of the city, the clouds finally breaking to let the pale winter sun through.

I had lost three years to Jared’s shadow, but the ground beneath my feet was finally my own.

I picked up the sketchpad, sat down at my desk, and began to work.