Chapter 13
Bruno became weaker the following winter.
Age.
Nothing sinister.
His hips slowed.
He slept more.
Caspian—my nephew’s boy—no, wrong story. I caught myself even thinking it.
Too many family crises had taught me something:
Do not turn ordinary decline into conspiracy.
Bruno was old.
That was enough.
Maya cared for him carefully.
I did too.
One night he would not climb the stairs.
I sat beside him on the landing.
Maya brought a blanket.
No dialogue for a while.
Then she asked:
“Was he really your father’s?”
“Yes.”
“My father gave him to me when Bruno was two.”
She smiled.
“So he’s been carrying family secrets longer than I’ve worked here.”
“Apparently.”
I looked at the plain new collar.
No hidden key.
No ring.
Good.
When Bruno died months later, quietly at the lake house, I expected grief to reopen everything.
It didn’t.
Not exactly.
Maya cried.
I did too.
We buried him beneath an old oak my father liked.
No family ceremony.
No politics.
Just a dog.
The original collar stayed with me.
Not because of the hidden compartments.
May you like
Because Bruno wore it.
That distinction mattered.
