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At fifty-five, after thirty-six years intertwined with Greg, a sudden, brutal road accident ripped him from my life, leaving an abyss where our shared future once stood. He had been my unwavering constant since I was nineteen, the quiet anchor of routines woven with everyday devotion. His passing cleved my world into an unbearable before and an unrecognizable after, and by the day of his farewell service, grief had already hollowed me out beyond measure. The chapel, a blur of soft music, delicate flowers, and hushed, sympathetic murmurs, felt surreal as I walked towards his resting place, a single, trembling rose clutched in my hand. He looked impossibly peaceful, laid out in the crisp suit I had bought for our last anniversary, a poignant echo of happier times. As I gently moved to place the fragrant bloom in his grasp, my fingers brushed against something unexpected, something small and folded tucked beneath his unmoving fingers. A note. It felt entirely out of place, secretive, a jarring discord in the solemn silence. A shiver of unease traced its way down my spine, compelling me to slip the cryptic scrap of paper into my purse, knowing with a chilling certainty that its hidden message would irrevocably change everything I thought I knew.
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