The invitation this time was personal.
Not professional.
Not institutional.
Handwritten.
Aaliyah noticed the envelope first because of how out of place it felt among the rest of the mail, thicker paper, uneven ink, her name written without titles or abbreviations.
No return address.
She turned it over once, then opened it slowly.
I'm hosting a small gathering next month. No panels. No speeches. Just people who've lived through change and are curious about what comes after. I'd like you there, not to lead, just to be.
There was a signature she recognized immediately.
Not from prominence.
From history.
Someone who had stepped away years before, long before stepping away was understood as strength.
Aaliyah folded the note carefully and set it down.
Rowan watched from the kitchen doorway.
"That's new," Rowan said.
Aaliyah nodded. "It's the first invitation I've received that doesn't ask me to represent anything."
Rowan smiled. "Are you going?"
