Chapter 13: The Final Breakfast
Tuesday morning arrived with a clear, sharp autumn sky that offered no comfort to the crumbling empire. The formal dining table was set one last time, though there were no silver platters, no gourmet leftovers to be scraped into industrial bins, and no mocking name cards. Just three simple ceramic bowls of porridge and three plain cups of tea.
Custa sat in his high-backed chair, wearing a clean light blue button-up shirt and a gray vest—his final uniform under this roof. He ate his porridge quietly, his eyes darting between Viktor, who sat in his usual place at the head of the table in his dark suit and black shirt, and Eleanor, who looked frail and diminished in her simple black mourning dress.
"The car from Chicago is waiting at the outer gate," Viktor said, breaking the silence as he set down his spoon. "The guards have been dismissed. The road is clear."
Eleanor stood up slowly, leaning heavily on the back of her chair. She walked around the table until she stood beside Custa. For a long moment, the seventy-year-old matriarch stared down at the toddler, her hands trembling slightly. She reached out and gently touched his messy blond hair—the first tender gesture she had ever bestowed upon him, or upon his mother before him.
"I am sorry, Custa," Eleanor whispered, her voice cracking with an emotion she had suppressed for half a century. "May you never remember the name on that card."
May you like
Custa looked up at her, sensing the finality of the moment, and reached out with his small hand, patting her wrinkled wrist in a gesture of instinctive, profound forgiveness. Eleanor turned away quickly, wiping a single tear from her cheek before it could fall.
Viktor stood up, picked up the canvas trunk with one hand, and lifted Custa out of the high chair with the other. He didn't look back at the dining room, nor at the crystal chandeliers, nor at the massive mahogany doors that had imprisoned generations.
