Two weeks later, George stood before the empty house. The walls echoed, stripped of photos and laughter. Yet it didn’t feel hollow — it felt finished.
He locked the door one last time, slipped the key into Daniel’s hand, and walked toward the waiting taxi.
As it pulled away, he looked back only once, at the little house that had seen every joy and sorrow of his life. Then he faced forward.
The sun was rising over the highway, warm and golden. For the first time in years, George Müller smiled without pain.
He wasn’t being sent away.
He was going home.
