TYRELL
He found the notebook in the bottom drawer of the desk in what had been his father's study.
Old. Black cover, worn at the corners. He almost put it back without opening it, but something made him turn to the first page.
His mother's handwriting. A grocery list, dated twenty-two years ago. Milk. Bread. The good coffee, not the instant. Apples. Tyrell's cereal (the one with the dinosaurs).
He stared at it for a long time.
She had written grocery lists. She had made breakfast. She had known which cereal he preferred and considered it important enough to write down. She had been ordinary in all the ways he had spent twenty years forgetting how to be, building an empire in the space where a life was supposed to go.
He turned to a blank page.
He sat for a moment with the pen in his
