The visitor was Mr. Brennan, the baker from downstairs, holding his flour-dusted cap. He told Conor he had witnessed the signature in 1994 and had kept a photocopy in his shop safe ever since. Mr. O’Dwyer had asked him to keep it until Mabel needed it. Then Mr. Brennan set the photocopy on the desk, and the two documents matched exactly, line for line. Conor sank into his chair, and the silence in that glass room was long.

His solicitor arrived within the hour and confirmed it. The option to purchase was valid, written clearly, witnessed, and never withdrawn. The price had been fixed in 1994 and did not change with the market. Conor tried to argue that thirty-eight thousand was absurd. The solicitor gently reminded him that his own father had set the price, and that a court would enforce it. Conor stopped arguing, and I saw him look at his father’s photograph on the shelf.

I did not gloat. I told Conor I would happily pay the full amount that day, and that I wanted him to remain the owner of the rest of the building. I also said I did not hate him. He had been in a hurry, as young people are. But his father had left a loaf of soda bread at my door for thirty years, and I intended to honor that. Conor swallowed and nodded, and for the first time he looked me in the eye.

The papers were signed that week. I now own Flat 4 outright, and no one will ever ask me to leave it. Conor cancelled the luxury conversion and let the other tenants stay at fair rents. He visits on Sundays and eats toast at my little table. Last month he brought a loaf of soda bread and left it outside my door, exactly the way his father used to. I put the biscuit tin back under my bed.