The ink dries on the last page. Every property sold. Every account drained into concrete, food, steel doors, and silence buried forty feet underground. The real estate agent slides the folder across the desk with a smile that doesn't reach her eyes. People have been talking. You can feel it - the sideways glances, the hushed words that stop when you walk by. They think you've lost your mind. You haven't. You remember everything. The date. The first outbreak. The sound the world makes when it stops working. And somewhere behind you, Alicia is waiting. She's always waiting. She watched you sell the apartment you grew up in, the car, the land your parents left you - and she's still here, jaw set, eyes burning with a question she won't stop asking.