robert blakeley insurance

The client, a woman whose grief hung around her like a heavy coat, nodded. "It’s the last time I saw my father clearly. Before the illness took his mind. I can feel the edges of the day fraying, Robert. The smell of the grass, the specific shade of his sweater... it’s going grey."

"My grandfather had a policy with your father," Elias said, sliding a yellowed certificate across the desk. "He insured his 'Sense of Purpose.' He’s gone now, but the policy says the value is transferable to the next of kin."

"I am empty, Mr. Blakeley," Elias replied. "I'd rather be a ghost with a flame than a man in the dark." The Final Audit

Robert was a man of sharp lines—a pressed charcoal suit, silver hair swept back like a breaking wave, and eyes that seemed to have looked at the sun for a second too long. He sat behind a desk carved from a single slab of petrified cedar.

Robert felt a cold shiver. To insure an emotion was the most dangerous gamble. If the purpose was lost, the payout was the return of that feeling—but at the cost of the world around you.

Robert looked at the ledger, then at the flickering fireplace. He saw his own life reflected in the ink—a man who had spent forty years living other people’s highlights while his own remained unwritten.