I let them know I’ll return shortly, taking one final look at the treatments from this more distant angle. I’m proud of how they turned out—the sleek, upturned serifs reminding me of Sibby’s favorite winged-eyeliner look, the extra-tall ascenders on the complementary cursive reminding me of Elijah’s height. Anyone who looks closely would see the hidden message here, the only one that matters:

Someone who knows Sibby and Elijah—someone who loves them—created these letters.

“They liked it?” Lachelle says when I come up to the front desk, taking in what I’m sure is my relieved smile. She’s got three supplier catalogs open in front of her and a red Sharpie in her hand, her tidy X’s of interest marked next to the items she’s considering for the shop.

Six months ago, Cecelia announced that she wanted less day-to-day involvement in the shop, since her kids would be headed off to college soon and she and Shuhei wanted to spend as much time with them as possible. After that, they planned to travel more, and so the timing seemed perfect. She wouldn’t sell, but she would reorganize, shutting down the retail part of the store so that she could run it as a custom invitation business only, everything by appointment with either her or one of her contractors.

To Lachelle—and honestly, to me, though it wasn’t quite my business—that idea had been outrageous, and she’d put up a big fight. A couple of times, in the weeks following Cecelia’s initial announcement, I’d come into the shop, hunting down supplies, only to find the two of them orbiting around each other in strained politeness; excuse me this and can you pass me the ink that. Once upon a time, it might’ve made me nervous and uncomfortable enough to avoid the place altogether, but by that point, deep into the aftermath of Reid’s revelations, I’d felt almost fireproof against life’s petty confrontations.

And anyway, soon enough, they’d come to a solution—Lachelle would buy in, taking over retail and operations, and Cecelia would manage the contractors and the custom service. Mostly, the shop runs the same way it always did—a steady stream of visitors and regulars, the usual upticks in custom services during wedding and holiday seasons. But Lachelle is changing things, too. A switched-up floor plan means more space for the new retail, more evening classes taught by some of the contractors, and—of course—a brand-new window display every month, all of them the likes of which this stretch of street has never seen.

“They love it,” I tell her, and we both glance up at where Elijah and Sibby sit, their heads bent together, still smiling dreamily at my work.

“Young love,” Lachelle says, shaking her head. “He probably still puts the toilet seat down.”