Ethan picked up the wallet—not to steal it. On the streets, he sometimes stole food. Hunger didn’t ask permission.
But this was different. Losing something like that in a cemetery meant the man was already carrying more tragedy than anyone should.
He opened the wallet, searching for ID.
And the world shrank.
Between gold cards and hundred-dollar bills was a photo—carefully folded, clearly treasured.
It was Anna.
Smiling. The same warm eyes. The same look that said Don’t worry, I’ve got you.
Ethan’s legs went weak.
He looked up at the gravestone and read the name:
Anna Whitmore
Beloved wife. The light of our lives.
His breath caught.
Wife?
He walked toward the man in the suit, clutching the wallet with both hands, like reality itself might shatter.
“Sir… is this yours?”
The man looked up.
Red eyes. Unshaven jaw. The hollow expression of someone who had already cried everything out and was still bleeding inside.
His name was Michael Whitmore—a real estate mogul, hotel owner, the kind of man whose name appeared in business magazines. Half of downtown, half of the skyline, and the other half in his bank account.
But there, in front of a grave, he was just a broken man.