Between headstones, two strangers bound by the same woman, the same absence, broke open together—painful, beautiful, real.
In the days that followed, Michael couldn’t sleep. Couldn’t eat. Couldn’t work. The image of the boy with the cardboard cart haunted him.
He went to St. Vincent’s. Asked for files. Signed forms. Paid fees.
And there it was.
Anna’s visit logs. Advanced adoption paperwork. Scheduled interviews.
She had been so close to finishing the process.
And he—her husband—had known nothing.
The guilt crushed him.
How did I not see it?
How did I let her carry this alone?
That night, he entered Anna’s room for the first time since her death. He searched drawers, shelves, boxes—not for pain, but for answers.
Inside her favorite novel, he found a letter.
Written to him.