Chapter 10 - The Rhythm of Jazz
Six months later, the Chicago summer had completely chased away the memory of the brutal winter.
The afternoon sun warmed the brick sidewalks of Lincoln Park as Sofía walked home from her new office. She had indeed left KPMG. She was now the head of her own independent forensic accounting firm, specializing in helping non-profit organizations and small businesses protect themselves from fraud.
She wore a simple green summer dress, her dark hair flowing over her shoulders. The physical scars on her wrist and ribs had faded into faint, silvery lines—reminders of a war she had survived, but no longer a source of pain.
She stopped at her favorite local coffee shop, ordered an iced latte, and walked back to her apartment.
When she entered her living room, the familiar, comforting sound of Miles Davis’s trumpet was playing softly from her record player. The room was clean, organized, and safe. The sun streamed through the large windows, illuminating a yellow vase filled with fresh sunflowers on her kitchen island.
Beside the vase lay a small, unmarked postcard from Switzerland.
There was no writing on the back, only a simple, hand-drawn circle with a red pen around a series of numbers—a conversion rate that matched to the eighth decimal point.
Sofía smiled, a genuine, peaceful smile that reached her eyes.
May you like
She walked over to her record player, turned the volume up just a fraction, and sat down in her favorite armchair near the window. She took a sip of her coffee, looking out over the green trees of Lincoln Park.
The numbers had told a terrifying story, but she had rewritten the ending. And finally, Sofía Benet was free to live it.
