EPILOGUE — THE SMALL BLUE STAR
One Saturday morning in November, Andre invited Daniel and Ruth to his apartment for coffee.
The height chart stood in the hallway, held against the wall by two brass hooks.
Its upper edge was still slightly crooked.
Andre’s daughter had insisted on hanging it herself when she was six, and he could never bear to straighten it.
He showed them the tiny blue star beside the last birthday mark.
“She drew that while I was making pancakes,” he said.
“She told me stars were supposed to be higher than people, but this one wanted to stay close.”
Ruth smiled and touched the wall beside the chart, careful not to touch the wood.
Daniel looked at the pencil marks, the scratch along the edge, and the simple drawings left by a small hand.
He understood why Andre had never wanted a cleaner replacement.
Some things mattered because nobody else could have made them exactly the same way.
Outside, the city carried on with traffic and delivery trucks and people crossing streets in a hurry.
For months, anonymous boxes had moved through that traffic with the names of their owners hidden or changed.
Now one box had reached the right door.
Andre brought out a plate of pancakes and set it in the middle of the table.
“She would have complained these were too small,” he said.
“She liked them bigger than the plate.”
Ruth took two.
Daniel took one and asked for another.
Andre laughed, then reached for the syrup.
Behind them, the little blue star remained where a child had drawn it,
close enough for everyone in the room to see.
The End.
