I promised change from a new balcony, sealed with a handshake and a newspaper photograph. The building was solid, it carried speeches well. I never asked who laid the bricks, nor who fell before the ribbon was cut. That day, the train was late. I spoke of temporary inconvenience, traffic, public order. I learned the name too late. It was my son. I died surrounded by possessions, accounts in order, a house perfectly silent. The money remained. My family did not.