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—not a curse. A boundary. A declaration that some absences are so vast, no euphemism can cover them.

“Because,” Orson whispered, “some things are not meant to be softened. Grief is not a delicate italic. Regret is not a light weight. When the world asks you to forget, you answer in Bodoni 72 Smallcaps Bold.” bodoni 72 smallcaps bold

“For your father,” Orson said. “When the time comes. Not as a memorial. As a statement .” —not a curse

Bold. Smallcaps. Seventy-two points of pure, solid enough . “Because,” Orson whispered, “some things are not meant

Clunk. Clunk. Thump.

Not the poem. The word itself. He had carved it from the idea of loss. And he had cast it in .

Orson died that winter. His press went silent. But on Mira’s wall, and in the small, secret collections of those who understand, the word still stands. Unforgiving. Unbending.