We watched the paper catch fire, the yellow flames curling the edges until it turned to black ash.

“That is the last of the Vale name,” Adrian said.

He closed the stove door with a quiet click.

Three months later, the snow had melted, leaving the grass around the cabin green and thick.

I stood at the kitchen window, watching Adrian out in the yard with the children.

He was wearing a faded flannel shirt and work boots, his hair slightly longer than he used to keep it.

He was helping Oliver stack small pieces of firewood near the porch.

Lena and Noah were chasing a yellow butterfly through the tall grass, their laughter drifting through the open window.

The newspapers we bought in town occasionally mentioned the trials in Chicago.

Salvatore Vale had suffered a stroke in prison and was deemed unfit to stand trial, spending his remaining days in a secure medical facility.

Camille Hart had accepted a plea deal, receiving a twelve-year sentence for conspiracy and fraud.

The Hart corporation had been liquidated to pay federal fines.

None of those names felt real to me anymore.