The night before the release date, in the quiet corner of the West Wing, Old Man Forson’s health had finally reached its breaking point. The chronic diabetes and the strain of his eighty-four years had combined into a final, irreversible collapse. He lay on his mat, his breath coming in shallow, ragged gasps that sounded like the tide retreating over gravel.

Kwesi sat by his side, still oblivious to the fact that his own name, his new name, was on the list in Owusu’s drawer. He held Forson’s skeletal hand, whispering the history lessons the old man had taught him, trying to keep the mentor’s mind anchored to the world.

“The… the belt, Kwesi,” Forson wheezed, his eyes fluttering open for a brief, lucid moment.

“Don’t speak, Papa Forson,” Kwesi urged, his eyes wet. “Save your strength.”

“No… listen,” Forson gripped Kwesi’s wrist with a surprising, terminal strength. “The belt in the property room. My leather belt. I told the OIC… I told Owusu. It is for you. Do not lose it. Do not… do not sell it.”

“I won’t lose it,” Kwesi promised.

“The secret… it is in the leather,” Forson whispered, his voice fading. “Under the second buckle… the map of a life I could not finish. You must finish it, Kwesi. You must become… the ledger.”

Forson’s eyes fixed on a point beyond the prison ceiling, a small, peaceful smile touching his lips. He let out one final, long breath, a sound of profound release, and then he was gone. The secretary of the Castle, the survivor of Beijing, the teacher of the West Wing, had finally served his full sentence.

Kwesi bowed his head against the old man’s chest and wept. He wept for the father he had found in the dark, and for the wisdom that was now his only inheritance. He sat there for hours, the silence of the West Wing a heavy shroud, until the heavy boots of a guard echoed in the corridor.

Owusu entered the cell, his face grave. He saw the still form of Forson and the broken man beside him.

“He’s gone, CIO Owusu,” Kwesi said, his voice hollow.

“He was a giant, 4405,” Owusu said, placing a hand on Kwesi’s shoulder. “But you cannot stay here to mourn him. You have a promise to keep, and the sun is about to rise on a day you never thought you’d see.”

Owusu leaned in, his voice a low, urgent hum. “Forson knew. He told me last week that he wouldn’t make it to the gates, but he made sure you would. He died knowing you were free, Kwesi. Don’t let his death be the thing that keeps you in this cell.”

“Free?” Kwesi looked up, confused. “My name wasn’t on the list. I saw the papers the guards were reading.”

“Kwesi Dankwa is still here,” Owusu whispered. “But Nana Kwame Mensah… he leaves at 4 AM tomorrow. And that is you, my friend. That is the only you that exists now.”