“He predicted you’d say that.”
“What else?”
“Said you read too much.”
“Probably true.”
“Said you worry too much.”
“Definitely true.”
Mr. Warren’s expression changed.
“He also said something I remember.”
“What?”
“He wanted the case made from oak.”
“Why?”
“I suggested pine. Easier to work with. Lighter.”
He placed one hand on the finished case.
“Ethan refused.”
“Why?”
“He said he needed it heavy.”
I frowned.
“Why?”
Mr. Warren looked at me.
“He said people don’t throw away things that feel important in their hands.”
I looked at the box.
It was heavy.
Much heavier than necessary.
Solid oak.
Thick corners.
Brass hardware.
Built to survive.
And suddenly I couldn’t see clearly again.
Mr. Warren gave my shoulder a gentle pat.
“Kid thinks about things.”
“Yes,” I whispered.
“He does.”
I left for Georgetown at the end of August.
For weeks after Senior Family Night, part of me wondered if choosing the farther university meant I had misunderstood Ethan’s gift.
