The Inheritance
Mr Halpern died on a Tuesday in March. Theo was thirteen.
Theo did not go to school that day. He sat in his bedroom and cried for most of the morning. His mother sat with him, sometimes. His mother let him cry. She said: "He was your friend. You're allowed to grieve him as much as you would for any other friend." Theo was grateful.
The funeral was small. Mr Halpern's niece, who Theo had met a few times, asked Theo if he would like to read something at it. Theo wrote a short piece. He read it carefully, in the small chapel, at thirteen years old:
*Mr Halpern was my friend. He was eighty years older than me. I think I learned more from him than I have learned from any teacher. He listened more than he talked. He was kind without being soft. He told me, once, that the best thing about getting old was getting to watch the next generation become themselves. I will remember him my whole life.*
Six weeks after the funeral, Mr Halpern's niece came round with a parcel.
"He left this for you," she said. "He was very particular about it. He wrote your name on the box."
Theo opened it carefully.
Inside was the small radio. The paper of the newspaper Mr Halpern had been reading on the day he died. A small framed photograph of the railway station Mr Halpern had built in 1962. And a folded letter.
The letter said, in the careful, slanted handwriting Theo had only ever seen on the