“Good afternoon,” one of them said, his tone measured, professional. He didn’t glance past me at first, didn’t react to the raised voices inside. He simply held out a document, laminated, official, impossible to ignore.
I took it without speaking, my fingers brushing the smooth surface. Even before I fully read it, I knew what it was. Not because I expected it—but because I had hoped, somewhere deep down, that this moment might exist one day.
Behind me, the voices faltered. Curiosity replaced outrage, if only briefly. “What is that?” someone demanded, their tone sharp with suspicion rather than authority for the first time.
The deputy answered before I could. “Proof of ownership,” he said evenly. And just like that, the room behind me lost its center of gravity.
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