A breath. A choice.
“West Virginia.”
Her brow arched. No judgment. Just quiet interest.
“It’s land,” he said slowly. “Family land. Handed down through generations in rural Black communities. Land they fought to hold onto—through Reconstruction, through Jim Crow, through everything meant to strip it away.”
He shifted the folder toward her, an offering he hadn't planned to make. “And now, it’s being stolen again. Legally.”
Tension cinched her chest, the words stirring something buried.
She’d seen it before, not land her own family lost, but neighbors and friends.Small plots tucked into the hills, passed down without paperwork, left vulnerable to anyone with a lawyer and enough ambition.
In West Virginia, it wasn’t always history books and headlines. Sometimes, it was your cousin’s place up the road sold out from under him for the promise of a new dollar store.
Her brow furrowed. “Heirs’ property?”
He looked up, something sharp and impressed flickering across his face.
She shrugged. “I read. It’s a legal trap. Land handed down without a will. Dozens of heirs, no clear title. All it takes is one to sell their share and the rest are screwed.”
“Exactly,” he said, his voice sharpening. “It’s classified as tenancy in common. One heir sells. A developer buys. Then they force a partition sale through the courts and the entire property goes on the block.”
“And just like that,” she murmured, “generations get erased.”
He nodded. “Most of the time, it’s not even malicious. Just… exhaustion. Families can’t afford the court fees to clear a title. Half of them don’t even know they’re at risk. In places like West Virginia, it goes back generations—no wills, no trust funds. Just land passed down through blood and faith... until someone finds a way to take it.”
A muscle jumped in his jaw. “Land Black families held onto for a hundred years—gone in a court auction in ten minutes.”
She leaned forward, fingertips brushing the desk. Close enough to feel the tension coil between them. “And your family?”
His answer came without hesitation. “Not me.”
Something in her face shifted. Not surprise. Something deeper.
“I’ve been working quietly to undo some of the damage. To help clear titles when I can. To stop new acquisitions. My grandfather’s generation saw it as business. I see it for what it is.”
She studied him for a long beat. “Is that why you were in West Virginia? To help?”
He met her gaze. “To try.”
Her expression softened, brow pinching faintly as she sat back.
“That’s... rare.”
“Rare?”
She nodded. “Most people wouldn’t bother. It’s too messy. Too hard.”
A hollow smile tugged at his mouth. “Most people don’t even know it’s happening. It’s not the kind of injustice that makes headlines. It’s quiet. Boring, if you don’t know what you’re looking at.”
She looked down at the folder, thoughtful. “It’s not boring. It’s survival.”
Silence settled between them. Not uncomfortable, just full.
She glanced at the folder again, then at him. “You could’ve said something.”
He stilled. “What?”
