When the ceremony ended, people drifted away in pairs and small groups, their umbrellas bobbing like dark petals in the rain. Someone squeezed my hand. Someone pressed a kiss to my cheek. Condolences blurred together.
At last, the crowd thinned. Only a ring of white lilies remained, trembling in the drizzle around the mound of earth that hid Gordon from me.
I leaned over the coffin one last time, laid my palm on the wet wood, and whispered:
“Rest easy, Gordon. I’ll be fine. I promise.”
I had no idea that a few hours later, that promise would become a vow—to reclaim justice for myself.
The black Mercedes rolled slowly through Houston’s familiar streets, its wipers brushing away the steady drizzle. I sat in the back seat, watching downtown’s glass towers fade into low brick buildings and oak‑lined avenues. The whole city looked like it was trapped under a sheet of glass—cold, distant, glossy.
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