Some Ruins Can Never Be Rebuilt

A rare hailstorm swept through Boston. The centuries-old building that embodied the glory of Sylvie's family came crashing down. Her phone vibrated for the third time before she finally answered. Alexander's familiar voice came through, calm and brooking no argument. "I had my secretary withdraw the theater's preservation order from City Hall." Sylvie stood beyond the barricade as rain lashed mercilessly against her face. "Why?" Her voice was completely flat. "Vivian's depression has relapsed." Weariness and tenderness colored Alexander's voice. "Her doctor said dark surroundings would worsen her tendency to hurt herself. Her new gallery is on the street behind the theater, and the theater blocked all its sunlight. She hasn't been able to paint a single picture for an entire week, and last night she took sleeping pills again." Standing in the downpour, Sylvie's lips turned white with cold. "So?" "So it had to come down." His tone softened. "Be reasonable. A human life matters more than a lifeless building. I've already bought another plot of land. By the end of the year, I'll build a brand-new modern art museum there in your grandfather's name." "A human life matters more than a lifeless building..." Sylvie repeated softly. Two years ago, the Preston family had faced a crisis. Without hesitation, Sylvie had signed an unconditional mortgage agreement, putting up this theater to secure the money that saved them. Standing in this very place, Alexander had cupped her face and promised, "Your family and everything that belongs to you—I will protect them for the rest of my life." Now, the building that held all her youth and faith had been sentenced to death simply because it blocked the sunlight from another woman's studio. Vivian's weak sobs drifted over the line. "Alexander, this is all my fault... I'm just too fragile..." "Don't talk like that, Vivian. Get some rest," Alexander chided gently. When he spoke to Sylvie again, impatience had returned to his voice. "Sylvie, I had Finance transfer 1.2 million dollars to you. Buy some jewelry you like or take a trip to Paris. Stop making a scene and come home early." He hung up. Sunlight finally broke through the clouds and streamed unobstructed over the white gallery. Sylvie stood before the ruins without crying. Her eyes didn't even redden. It was dark by the time she returned to the Preston estate. In the study, 6-year-old Lucas lay sprawled across the carpet. Hearing the door open, he looked up with a pair of scissors in his hand. Yellowed pieces of parchment lay scattered all around him. They were the original architectural drawings Sylvie's grandfather had spent 8 years completing by hand, the last surviving originals her family possessed. Lucas was gluing the scraps he had cut onto a palette no larger than his palm. "Mom, walk more quietly." The boy looked up, delivering the cruelest words in the most innocent voice. "Aunt Vivian said she was going to paint tomorrow. This paper absorbs water best, so I cut it into blotting paper for her palette. Now she won't cry anymore." Sylvie lowered her gaze to the scraps on the floor. Those drawings were where her dream of becoming an architect had begun. "Lucas, your great-grandfather left those to me." Lucas wasn't frightened. Instead, he bristled with righteous indignation. "You're so stingy! Dad said Aunt Vivian's illness is what matters most. This junk can't cure her." At 6 years old, he didn't even understand what he had destroyed. That was because, day after day, his father had taught him by word and example that his own mother's beliefs and dignity must always give way to one sick woman. Sylvie looked at the child she had carried for 9 months. Once, she had spent countless nights patting him gently through a fever and had teared up when he first learned to speak. But as she looked into eyes identical to Alexander's, all she felt now was despair. "Fine," she said. Lucas froze. He had expected his mother to scold him sternly as she always did, perhaps even lunge forward to protect the drawings. Instead, Sylvie turned calmly toward the bookshelf and pulled out a document that had long been buried at the bottom. It contained an offer for a classified project from the Swiss Heritage Restoration Authority. The base was underground in Greenland. Once she signed on and moved in, she couldn't leave except in the event of war. The assignment would last 6 years. Without a moment's hesitation, she signed her name: Sylvie Schaefer.