She tried convincing herself it was delirium, the fragmented whisper of a dying man. Yet the words had sounded measured, deliberate, and almost rehearsed. They echoed louder than the condolences murmured at the funeral, unsettling her more than the black suits and fading flowers around his casket.
Back home, unease shadowed every corner. A key taped beneath his desk. Bank statements hidden in the spine of an old novel. Even ordinary memories replayed differently now, tinged with secrecy. It was as though he had left her a puzzle, daring her to uncover the truth.
His last words clung to her like a curse. “I’m sorry. You’ll see.” Moments later, his hand had slipped lifelessly from hers. As the monitors went silent, grief rose in her chest, but confusion carved deeper. What secret had he carried into death, leaving her to decipher?