Simone continued.
"Imagine you're walking home from school. An adult treats you unfairly. Would it become wrong only if they discovered your grandmother knew the mayor?"
"No."
"Would it become wrong only if you had a famous family?"
"No."
"Would it be wrong even if nobody knew your name?"
"Yes."
Simone smiled.
"That's the part I hope you remember."
The girl thought for a moment.
Then she asked, "So what made you special?"
Simone laughed softly.
"I had people who loved me. I had work I cared about. I made mistakes and tried to correct them. I was a person."
The child nodded.
Then she asked whether Simone wanted help making tea.
"Yes, please."
They walked into the kitchen together.
The conversation moved on to school projects, favorite books, and whether the family should adopt another dog.
The textbook remained on the table.
Unopened.
For the rest of the afternoon, Simone was simply an elderly aunt helping a child make tea.
The final public report about the Riverside reforms was published many decades after the original incident.
It was not a report declaring permanent victory.
It documented improvements and remaining challenges.
Complaints were easier to submit.
Evidence retention had become more reliable.
Independent audits identified problems earlier.
Training emphasized lawful detention standards and intervention when colleagues misused authority.
Residents had greater access to explanations of official decisions.
But misconduct had not disappeared.
No system could guarantee that every official would act correctly.
The report emphasized the importance of continuing review.
Its final recommendation was simple.
Accountability systems should not depend on public outrage before activating.
Simone read the report at her kitchen table.
She was ninety-one.
Abigail, now elderly herself, sat nearby sorting family photographs.
Simone turned the last page.
Then she closed the report.
"Anything interesting?" Abigail asked.
Simone smiled.
"They're still finding things to improve."
"Does that bother you?"
"No."
She looked toward the window.
"It means they're still looking."
Abigail placed a photograph on the table.
It showed Daniel standing beside a young Simone during a family picnic.
Both were laughing.
Simone picked it up.
For a long moment, she said nothing.
Then she traced the edge of the photograph with one finger.
"He would've liked that."
"What?"
"People still checking their work."
Abigail smiled.