On the thirty-seventh day,
I received my first A at the academy.
My design professor hung my work on the display wall in the hallway.
The empty chair.
A classmate stopped in front of it and asked,
“What are the things on the chair supposed to represent?”
I said,
“Things that belonged to someone else.”
“Then where are yours?”
“Mine?”
I looked down.
“Mine’s on my foot.”
She didn’t understand.
But she smiled.
And somehow, I smiled too.
During my first month in Paris, I learned one thing—
No one would ask me to give up what was mine just because someone else cried.
That same day, I received a package.
It was sent from home.
There was no sender’s name.
Inside was the music box.
The gears had been repaired.
The crooked “Tahlee” carving on the wooden surface had been sanded away.
At the bottom was a new line of engraving.
“I’m sorry. I’m returning it to you. —Rhys Fontaine”
Rhys’s name.
I placed the music box on the windowsill.
I never wound it up.
The next day, another package arrived.
From Graham.
A new necklace.
Not the Calloway family heirloom necklace.
One he had made himself.
There was a card inside.
“I took back the family heirloom necklace. This one is new. It’s only yours. When you come back, I’ll put it on you myself.”
I placed the necklace back into the box.
Then I returned it.
The shipping address was Graham’s home.
In the note section, I wrote:
I don’t need it anymore.
On the forty-fifth day, Mom finally reached the academy office.
The receptionist transferred the call to my student housing.
“Sloane?”
Her voice was gentle.
Careful.
That was the tone she had always used with Tahlee.
“Yeah.”
“I miss you.”
I stayed silent.
“When are you coming home?”
“I’m not.”
There was silence on the other end.
“The legal department said that after ninety days, the Fontaine family won’t belong to us anymore.”
“It might not even belong to your father anymore.”
“Sloane, that company was your grandfather’s life’s work.”
“So?”
“You come back, and the designated heir position is still yours.”
“What about the brooch?”
Mom went quiet.
“What?”
“The brooch.”
“Who has it now?”
A long silence followed.
“Tahlee still wears it.”
“Then let her inherit it.”
“Sloane, she’s not a blood descendant of the Fontaine family.”
“Your grandfather’s will was clear. It says—”
“Mom.”
I cut her off.
“Did you call because you missed me?”
“Or because you needed something from me?”
She didn’t answer.
I waited ten seconds.
“Goodbye, Mom.”
I ended the call.
Then I turned off the call forwarding function on my school landline.
On the windowsill, the music box moved slightly in the wind.
The gears turned half a circle.
But there was no sound.
Because I hadn’t turned the key that brought it back to life.