After a week of observation, Aunt Elaine delivers her verdict.
She corners me in the library. Not the living room. Not in front of everyone. Just the two of us. The secret rainbow bookshelf glows behind her—the only splash of color in the entire penthouse. Red spines flowing into orange flowing into yellow. My grandmother told me once that the old Vivian organized this shelf herself. A tiny rebellion against the black and white of her life.
Elaine has chosen this room deliberately. I can tell by the way she stands. The way her sharp eyes sweep over the shelves before settling on me. She isn't here to admire the books. She's here to say something important.
"Sit," she says.
I sit on the velvet chaise lounge—the same one I collapsed onto during my desperate quest for water at 2 AM. It feels like a lifetime ago. I was so lost then. So empty. So completely unaware of who I was or what I was becoming.
