Sophie didn’t celebrate.

She just stood at Phoenix HQ, reading messages from students around the world.

One read:

“I learned how to ask questions because of Phoenix.”

Another:

“We know your fire hurts. But we need it.”

Alone, under a cold Geneva night sky, Sophie walked the quiet garden path Mary once called “the last corridor.”

She passed the metal statue of a phoenix.

Touched its wing.

Then said softly:

“You tried, AUNT Mary.

I tried too.

But this time — we’re winning.”

The statue didn’t answer.

But the fire in her chest did.

It was still lit.

Still burning.

Still rising.

The world was changing.

Not just bending toward...