The roof is empty. The last page is not.

The moving van comes at seven. Bea’s books are boxed, the curtains are down, and only Grandpa’s wooden chair still faces the closed window.
Across the courtyard, the roof is empty. A small bird used to stop there at 6:12, when Bea and Grandpa watched without opening the glass.
Grandpa moved three cities away last month. In the sketchbook he left one instruction: If it comes back, turn the page.