Chapter 15 - Sunday Pancakes
Two weeks later, the crisp morning air of Queens carried the familiar scent of damp asphalt, fallen autumn leaves, and exhaust fumes.
The front door of our modest apartment swung open, and Renata walked inside, her steps steady, carrying her canvas backpack over one shoulder. The heavy metal brace was finally gone, replaced by a discreet physical therapy wrap around her jaw.
She dropped her bag by the entryway and walked straight into the small, cramped kitchen.
I stood at the stove, wearing my faded apron over a flannel shirt, staring down at a smoking black pan. True to form, the first batch of Sunday pancakes had completely charred around the edges, filling the kitchen with a familiar, acrid haze.
Renata burst out laughing—a bright, musical sound that filled every empty corner of the apartment and chased away the last lingering ghosts of the past.
"Dad, you burned them again!" she teased, walking over and grabbing the spatula from my hand with practiced ease. "Move aside. Let someone who actually knows how to cook handle breakfast."
I stepped back, watching her flip the second batch with perfect, golden precision.
The phone on the counter remained silent. The burner satellite device was locked away in a secure safe three miles deep beneath the city. The empire of shadows was buried forever, its ledgers burned to ash, its players scattered to the wind.
There was no Ghost left in this room.
There was only a father, a daughter, and a stack of golden pancakes waiting on a Sunday morning.
May you like
"Smells perfect, Mija," I smiled, wrapping my arm around her shoulders.
And for the first time in nineteen years, the peace we had built felt entirely real.
