For the first time since leaving Culling, Jimmy Gillmore Jr. smiled. It wasn’t much, just a twitch of the mouth that said maybe the world isn’t done with me yet.

He’d spent a week sweeping Al’s shop, fixing coffee, and learning how to listen to silence. Al never asked questions about Culling; he just let Jimmy breathe.

Then came the drawer. Old wood, brass handle, lock so worn it looked like it wanted to be opened. Inside: an envelope with Jimmy’s name. His name — written in red ink.

Al said, “Not today, kid. Some stories need time to open themselves.”

Jimmy didn’t push. Instead, he walked outside, sun burning through the Florida haze, and realized something new — maybe peace wasn’t quiet. Maybe peace was waiting.

Tomorrow could hold ghosts, or luck, or both. For now, he’d take the air, the sun, and the strange comfort of knowing his story wasn’t finished.