A millionaire bu/rie/d his wife. He was returning from the cemetery. By the gate sat an old woman. He gave her money. She took it, looked at him, and quietly asked, “And what will you say to your daughter?” He froze. He had no daughter…

The woman spoke his full name and listed details of his life with precision. His company. His marriage. His wife’s maiden name. Every word struck like a hammer.

Gregory felt the world shift beneath him.

“Who are you,” he asked, stepping closer. “What do you want. More money.”

The woman raised her hand. The gesture carried unexpected authority.

“I do not need your money. I have already taken what was meant for the dead. Listen. Keep searching if your heart is not yet stone. Start at the nursing home on the east side. Ask for Doris Caldwell. She remembers everything.”

Gregory opened his mouth to question her, but the woman wrapped her coat tighter and walked away into the rain with surprising speed. When Gregory tried to follow, Walter held him back.

“Sir, you are soaked. The doctor said you must not catch cold.”

Gregory allowed himself into the car. Through the window, the old woman had vanished as if she had never been there. Only her words remained, echoing relentlessly.

What will you tell your daughter.

The mansion greeted him with silence. Marble floors, high ceilings, expensive art. All built for Erin. Now it felt like a tomb.