Chapter 9
My father’s room stayed open.
That surprised everyone.
Some expected me to reseal it after finding the burned names.
No.
Closed rooms had done enough damage.
I moved Father’s clothing into proper storage.
Gave books to the library.
Kept some.
His desk remained.
So did the portrait.
But the wooden strip came down.
Not destroyed.
Archived with context.
My father deserved neither worship nor erasure.
He made a terrible choice.
Then preserved evidence of it.
Complicated.
Human.
Silas hated the reorganization.
“You moved his chair.”
“Yes.”
“It belonged near the window.”
“He’s dead.”
Silas glared.
Then laughed.
Good.
We turned the room into a small family study.
No sacred threshold.
No rule that strangers could not enter.
The first non-family guest I invited was Roselle.
She refused.
Good.
Choice.
The second was Owen.
He accepted because there were model ships on the shelf.
Children defeat symbolism effortlessly.
He sat on my father’s old carpet and built a wooden airplane.
Silas nearly had a spiritual crisis.
I enjoyed it.
Then he sat on the floor and helped.
Better.
May you like
An old room stopped being a shrine.
That mattered.
