He looked up as I approached, his stern face softening into a brief nod.

“Colonel Rogers,” Drummond said, stepping away from the officers. “Are you ready?”

“Yes, General,” I said, standing at attention.

“Relax, Emerson,” he said quietly. “Today is about restoring what should never have been taken from you.”

He gestured toward the stage.

The crowd began to drift toward the rows of chairs set up in front of the platform.

I saw Helen and Michael take their seats in the second row, their faces rigid.

Helen kept her eyes fixed on General Drummond, refusing to look at me.

Michael kept his eyes on his lap, his fingers nervously tracing the gold buttons on his sleeve.

The brass quintet stopped playing.

General Drummond stepped up to the microphone, the sound of his boots on the wooden stage echoing through the room.

The audience fell silent, the only sound the low whistle of the wind against the high windows.

“Ladies and gentlemen,” Drummond began, his voice deep and authoritative. “Please be seated.”

The rustle of uniforms and chairs filled the room for a moment, then stopped.