The way the light hits the kitchen floor at 8:30 PM

It’s that exact golden slant that only happens in late May, when the sun dips low and the blinds haven’t been adjusted all day. I was standing there with a cold mug of tea, watching dust motes float like they’ve forgotten where they were going. It reminded me of a claim I handled years ago—woman said her husband’s ashes had been scattered wrong, not near the river he loved but by a parking lot. She didn’t want money, just proof it was done right. I found the spot, took a photo, sent it. She wrote back: ‘Thank you. Now I can close my eyes.’ That moment—it wasn’t about fraud or paperwork. It was