The Judge Ordered The Warehouse To Keep Its Doors Closed

I wore the same dark jacket I had worn to the funeral. A blue pencil rode in its inside pocket.

Ruth had worked late. Her request asked the Superior Court to stop Daeho from moving or selling my instruments and to preserve the crate in Hadley until ownership could be heard.

The warehouse manager had agreed to delay release long enough for the judge to consider it. Owen's lawyer sent written support for a short hold.

"No one wants to receive stolen property," Ruth told me. "But we still need an order that binds the people involved."

Daeho arrived with a lawyer named Calvin Shaw. He greeted the court officer like an old friend, though I had never seen them meet.

"Jiyeon," he said warmly. "You look tired."

He offered me a wrapped mint.

I shook my head.

Inside the courtroom, Ruth laid out the deed, gift agreement, inventory pictures, and the two freight instructions. She did not call my uncle a thief. She named dates and page numbers.

Calvin said the family had misunderstood Grandfather's wishes.

"The deceased retained use and control," he said. "There may have been a later sale."

"Of goods he had already given away?" the judge asked.

"That is disputed."

"Which is why they should remain available."

The judge asked about the $600 receipt. Ruth showed the old appraisal and the purchase contract for $186,000.

"We aren't asking the court to determine the will's validity today," she said. "We ask that this identified property stay put, and that my client be allowed a supervised inspection."

The judge granted the temporary restrictions and set another hearing. The written order allowed an inspection with the warehouse manager present. No one could alter or remove the mirror without agreement or further court order.

I read my copy twice.

On the courthouse steps, Daeho waited until Calvin turned away to take a call.

"Your grandfather needed money," he told me. "You weren't there every day."

"Neither were you."

His smile vanished.

"You don't know what he promised me."

"Then show the court."

I walked to Ruth's car before he answered.

At the warehouse, the manager checked our identification and the order. Owen came with his lawyer. He kept his hands in his coat pockets when he saw me.

"I thought I was buying a rare instrument from its owner," he said.

"Help us keep the record straight."

"I will."

The crate stood between a boxed printing press and a stack of restaurant chairs. Grandfather's handwriting still marked the lid: KEEP UPRIGHT. It had a new shipping label over the old one.

I photographed each side before the manager removed the screws.

"Why the drawing?" he asked as I sketched the lid braces.

"So I can put it back the way it was. And show what changed."

The glass rested in its cell beneath a clean cover. I felt my shoulders drop for the first time in days.

The retaining tab was still in place. I marked its position, then lifted it with the manager recording each step.

M-17.

The small open ring.

I remembered making that mark with him when I was sixteen. We had needed a way to place the glass in the same position after each cleaning. My hand had slipped, leaving the ring unfinished. He had refused to let me fix it. He said we could recognize our own work without making it perfect.

I put the tab back.

"That's the mirror in the gift inventory," I said.

Owen's lawyer compared the photographs.

"We won't dispute identification," she said. "We reserve our claim against the seller."

The care binder lay in a narrow side pocket. Daeho had taken it with the crate. Its cover carried a coffee stain shaped like the state of Vermont.

I opened it on a clean sheet of paper.

Halfway through, I found the receipt my uncle had copied.

It was real, but it wasn't for this glass.

Two years earlier, Grandfather had sold Daeho a rough practice blank for $600. Its number was R-4. Daeho had wanted it as a display piece for his office.

The original receipt described bubbles deep in that blank. Below it, Grandfather had written, in his small square print, Not For Optical Use.

On the new receipt, the number and date had changed. The rest of the wording matched.

"He used this to price M-17 as junk," I said.

Ruth asked the manager to witness the binder's condition. We copied the relevant pages and sealed it back in the crate as the order required.

Outside, Owen looked sick.

"I want my deposit back," he said.

"So do we," his lawyer answered.

Before we left, Ruth's phone chimed. She read the notice, then turned the screen toward me.

Daeho had filed his new will in the Hampshire Probate and Family Court.