Chapter 8

Three years after Jane's passing, Alan stood in a Louvre exhibition hall, facing an enlarged Winter Graveyard. Beneath the silvery moon, two tombstones leaned close. White roses glowed faintly in the moonlight. The plaque read: "With the gentlest brushstrokes, this painting depicts another form of death—not an end, but a reunion." His phone buzzed. A message from the ALS Research Center: "Mr. Dale, your 'Jane Fund' has successfully funded the first stem cell transplant. Patient is recovering well." He looked out the window. Parisian skies were blue, like the highest sky Jane ever painted. A faint static crackle came from the voice recorder in his pocket – Jane's last recording, fragmented, mixed with monitor beeps: "Uncle Alan... apple pie... cold... but moon... round..." Alan covered his face, shoulders shaking violently. He finally understood. In that hospital room, she hadn't meant the pie, or the moon. She meant— I forgive you. Truly, I do. Later, while sorting Jane's b