The front door of Vale Street Printworks stood open at dusk, held by a bucket of hardened ink. I had locked it three years earlier when I left to care for my mother. My business partner, Drew, was supposed to manage the shop until I returned. Instead, rain had curled the sample menus in the window, and somebody had taped an auction notice over the hours. The apartments above us were dark except for one kitchen.
A young press operator named Cal Reed stepped from behind the paper cutter. He recognized me from old staff photographs and asked whether I had come to stop the sale. That was how I learned Drew planned to sell the building on Monday. He had told employees and tenants that I surrendered my interest after moving away. I had signed a temporary management agreement, not a surrender.
Drew arrived in a polished car while I was photographing the notice. He said the company had failed, the building needed more repairs than it was worth, and the sale would spare everyone a painful closure. He offered me a settlement check if I signed before the auction. The amount would not have covered one year of rent in the apartment where I had cared for Mom. He called it peace of mind.
I asked to see the deed and three years of accounts. Drew said both were with the buyer's attorney. Behind him, the open door shifted in the wind and struck the wall. A narrow strip of molding fell to the floor. Inside the gap was a waxed envelope bearing my father's return address. Drew stopped talking. Cal reached for it, then paused and asked whether I wanted him to call a witness before anyone touched it. He looked at me and quietly stepped back.