The penthouse settled into something that felt almost like peace.
It had been two weeks since Martha Grey had returned to Arizona, her suitcase packed with Tupperware containers of Mrs. Nguyen's pho and seventeen laminated certificates that Eleanor had insisted she take. The guest room was empty again, the sheets freshly changed, the thermostat adjusted back to its usual setting. The paw print stamp that Eleanor had given Martha as a farewell gift—"for your maternal observation certificates, the corners are improving but the stamp placement needs work"—sat on the bookshelf beside the framed photograph of my grandparents in front of Marlene's Café.
