Maja,

You will find this funny: the slab opened. The one I told you about in 2034, the one the committee killed twice, the one I rewrote with different verbs until someone finally stopped reading. They cut the ribbon Tuesday. Nobody invited me, which is correct. I work here.

I biked past it this morning on the way in. It is a pocket park now — moss, wildflowers in the cracks they let us keep, the limestone boulder I went to war for, still squatting there in the middle like it never asked for any of this. A kid was climbing it. Five, maybe. Shoes off. The mother was watching him and not filming, which I noticed because I have become the kind of man who notices that.

The new microcanopies actually work, by the way. Quiet. No hum. You would not hate them.

I know we don't do anniversaries anymore. But it's warm today, properly warm, and I wanted to tell someone who remembers me drawing this on a napkin at the kitchen table. Tell Ida her father occasionally finishes things.

Give my love to the balcony.

A.

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