Chapter 20 - The Final Footstep
The snow began to fall again on Christmas Eve, exactly six years to the day since Trent had placed his keys on the kitchen island and walked out into the cold.
The kitchen of our Newport estate was warm, smelling of cinnamon, roasted apples, and pine. The red-and-green dish towel hung neatly over the oven handle, a quiet reminder of where everything had started.
Marcus and I stood by the frosted window, watching the white flakes drift down over the garden path.
"Are you ready?" Marcus asked, picking up a heavy wool coat from the arm chair.
"Always," I smiled, grabbing my favorite brown leather boots—repaired, polished, and still as sturdy as the day I bought them—and pulling them onto my feet.
We walked out the front door together, stepping past the grand pillars into the silent, beautiful winter night. We didn't take a motorcade. We didn't call a driver.
We walked down to the local town square, our footsteps crunching softly against the fresh layer of white snow.
As we passed the corner of Memorial Park, sitting on a lonely wooden bench beneath the streetlamp, I saw a familiar silhouette—a traveler huddled in worn clothes, staring down at his freezing feet in the bitter cold.
I stopped in my tracks.
Marcus stopped beside me, following my gaze, and a knowing, affectionate smile spread across his face. He didn't say a word. He simply reached into his pocket, pulled out a small leather pouch, and handed it to me.
May you like
I smiled, unzipped my coat, and walked toward the bench.
Some investments never fail. And some journeys are only just beginning.
