The warden's letter arrived on a brittle winter morning, its black seal stark against the pale parchment. Paul stood frozen in the entrance hall, the unopened missive heavy in his hand. He didn't need to break the wax to know what it contained - the prison's insignia told him everything.
Sandra found him there minutes later, still as one of Blackwood's statues, his knuckles white around the envelope. She wordlessly took his free hand, pressing her warmth into his icy fingers.
"He's gone then," Paul said flatly. Not a question.
Sandra gently pried the letter from his grip and broke the seal. Her eyes scanned the contents quickly. "Last night. The warden says it was peaceful at the end." She hesitated before adding, "He left instructions. For the burial."
Paul's jaw tightened. "Let me guess - the Barton family crypt, with all the pomp and ceremony befitting his station."
Sandra folded the letter carefully. "Actually, no. He requested to be interred at the prison cemetery. No service. No markers beyond what's standard for inmates." She met Paul's shocked gaze. "He specified it in writing months ago, apparently."
The grandfather clock in the hall ticked loudly in the silence that followed. Paul turned abruptly and walked to the window, staring out at the frost-laced gardens where Alexander played under Eleanor's watchful eye, his cheerful shrieks muffled by the thick glass.
"Why?" The word tore from Paul's throat, raw and unguarded. "After a lifetime of obsession with legacy, with dynasty - why this?"
Sandra came to stand beside him, watching their son toddle after a ball, his mittened hands outstretched. "Perhaps," she said softly, "in the end, he understood the weight of the name he gave you. And chose to spare Alexander from having to visit a grandfather's grand tomb."
Paul exhaled sharply, his breath fogging the windowpane. When he spoke again, his voice was steadier. "I won't go to the burial."
"I didn't imagine you would."
"But you'll send someone? To confirm it's done?"
Sandra nodded. "Mr. Davies can attend discreetly." She hesitated. "There is one more thing. The warden included this." She drew a small, sealed envelope from her pocket. "Your father wrote it for you. To be delivered after his death."
Paul took it gingerly, as if it might burn him. The paper was thin, cheap - prison issue. His name sprawled across the front in Reginald's unmistakable hand, the ink slightly blurred in places. Water stains, or something else?
"Later," he murmured, tucking it into his waistcoat pocket. "For now..." He turned back to the window, where Alexander had now plopped onto his bottom in the snow, giggling madly as Eleanor pretended to scold him. "For now, I'd rather focus on the living."
Sandra leaned into him, her head resting against his shoulder. Outside, the winter sun broke through the clouds, setting the frost ablaze with light. The past was buried. The future, bright and unwritten, stretched before them. And in that moment, with his wife's warmth at his side and his son's laughter in the air, Paul Barton found he could breathe freely at last.