Chapter 7 - The Auction of Hayes Empire
The flight to Toronto was uneventful. For the first time in his adult life, Alexander Hayes stood in a commercial boarding queue, shuffled through security with his shoes in a gray plastic bin, and sat in an aisle seat in row 28, squeezed between an elderly couple visiting their grandchildren and a college student listening to headphones.
No one recognized him. Without the bespoke Brioni suits, the platinum Patek Philippe watch, and the phalanx of private bodyguards, he was simply another tired, quiet man with graying temples and sorrow etched into the corners of his eyes.
He checked into a small, clean three-star hotel near Union Station. He spent the evening sitting by the window, watching the streetcars glide along the tracks below, clutching a worn leather notebook in his lap. Inside that notebook, he had written a thousand letters to Emily—letters he knew he would never send, words of confession and remorse that had no right to disturb the peaceful life she had fought so hard to reclaim.
The following morning, beneath a brilliant, cloudless summer sky, Alexander took the subway north toward Queen’s Park.
The park was alive with the vibrant energy of early summer. Children chased pigeons across the emerald lawns; young couples shared iced coffees on wooden benches; street musicians played acoustic guitars beneath the shade of towering maple trees.
At the northern edge of the park stood the Children’s Memorial Arts Pavilion.
Seeing it in person took Alexander’s breath away. The soaring glass walls seemed to dissolve into the sky, reflecting the surrounding greenery with stunning architectural brilliance. Inside the open-air central courtyard, the scent of blooming jasmine and lavender drifted out on the gentle breeze.
Alexander stopped at the perimeter of the courtyard, carefully positioning himself behind a wide stone pillar, well outside the legal boundary set by the court. He pulled the collar of his light canvas jacket up slightly, watching from the shadows.
Dozens of children were inside the courtyard, laughing as instructors guided them in watercolor painting and clay sculpting. Parents sat along the perimeter stone ledges, watching their little ones with easy, relaxed smiles.
And there, in the center of a circular reflecting pool lined with smooth river stones, stood the bronze sculpture.
Alexander’s breath caught in his throat.
The little bronze girl in the raincoat, lifting the bird to the sky. The tilt of her chin, the curve of her smiling cheeks, the dimple on the left side of her face—it was Grace. Perfect, beautiful, eternal Grace.
Alexander pressed his back against the stone pillar, his eyes burning as hot, silent tears carved clean paths down his cheeks. For two years, his memory of his daughter had been poisoned by the image of a cold hospital bed and a white cotton sheet. But standing here, looking through the glass at this magnificent monument, he saw his daughter as she had truly lived: joyful, free, and enveloped in her mother’s fierce, everlasting love.
“She’s beautiful, isn't she?” a soft, calm voice said from three paces away.
Alexander froze, his entire body going rigid with shock.
May you like
He slowly turned his head.
Standing beside the outer garden pathway, wearing an ivory linen shirt and dark trousers, holding a small sketchbook under her arm, was Emily.
