“Mr. Reinhardt,” she whispered, her voice trembling with surprise rather than guilt, “I did not expect you to come here personally.”
Paul maintained his usual composure, though irritation sharpened his tone noticeably as he answered, “I came to understand why my offices remain unattended today, Lucia, since recurring emergencies demand clearer explanation.”
Lucia shifted slightly, instinctively blocking the entrance while replying softly, “Please, sir, today is complicated, and I truly meant to call earlier before circumstances overwhelmed my intentions.”
A sudden coughing fit echoed from inside the apartment, harsh, persistent, and unmistakably painful. Paul moved past Lucia without waiting for permission, driven now by curiosity rather than authority. The modest living room revealed scattered textbooks, medical brochures, and neatly arranged pill bottles beside an aging sofa. On a small table near the window stood a framed photograph that stopped Paul’s breath entirely. It was a picture of his late sister, Annelise Reinhardt, smiling with a warmth he had not seen since childhood summers long forgotten.