Now Reyes found himself staring at George’s lapel, noticing how carefully the old man had fastened that pin.
Not decorative. Not careless. Centered, cleaned, worn.
His own grandfather had kept medals in a drawer lined with an old towel and never explained them.
Reyes remembered touching one as a boy and being told, gently but firmly, to put it back.
Miller did not share that memory. Or maybe he did and had spent years learning to bury it.
“History?” Miller scoffed. “You came into our space wearing costume jewelry and expect a salute?”
George’s hand moved at last to the pin, not covering it, only resting beside it.
“This was given to me by a man who never got the chance to grow old enough to be mocked.”
The words landed simply. No theater, no trembling outrage.
That simplicity made them harder to dismiss.
Davis, watching from behind the service counter, realized his hands were shaking against the edge of the metal tray rail.
He wondered whether he had done enough, or whether calling someone else was just another way of hiding.
His grandfather’s voice came back to him then, from a hospital room that smelled of coffee and antiseptic.
“Respect is easy when it costs you nothing, Danny. The test is when it sends a bill.”
Davis had hated that line when he was younger because it sounded like homework.
Now it sounded like a warning arriving too late.
Miller leaned closer, voice dropping so low only the nearest tables heard him.
