An obituary announces that Hector Bowen, known as Prospero the Enchanter, has died of heart failure on March fifteenth. It notes his legacy and mentions his seventeen-year-old daughter, Celia Bowen, while instructing that condolences be sent through a local theater.

Condolence letters and floral arrangements flood the Bowen townhouse. Overwhelmed by the stifling lilies, Celia transforms all the flowers into roses, then leaves the growing stacks of mail untouched until she can no longer avoid them.

Celia makes tea and opens each letter, sorting them as she reads. Some are sincere, others shallow, many remark they never knew Prospero had a daughter, and a few recall a childhood Celia does not remember. When she finds unsettling marriage proposals, Celia burns them to ash in her palm and mutters, “I am already married,” twisting the ring on her right hand over an old scar.

Among the condolences, Celia finds a plain grey envelope addressed to her father by name, postmarked after his death. Inside is a blank card except for two handwritten words: Your move.

Gripped by uncertainty, Celia abandons the rest of the letters and climbs to an upstairs parlor secured by three locks. In the bright afternoon sun, she confronts the hovering, partially sun-erased figure of Hector Bowen, who reads the card and laughs with delighted recognition.