Charles nodded but said nothing. Words pressed against his chest—regret, maybe. Or the quiet realization that he’d spent too many years chasing success and too few visiting home.
The funeral director, a thin man with graying temples, approached softly.
“We’ll be closing soon for the evening. You’re welcome to stay a little longer, Mr. Whitaker, but the building will be locked at eight.”
“I understand,” Charles replied calmly.
As relatives filed out one by one, offering hushed condolences, Charles remained. Elaine stepped away to check on the floral arrangements.
The room grew silent.
Then he heard it.
At first, it was barely noticeable—a faint shuffle from the hallway. Then a voice, low and urgent.
“Mr. Collins? Mr. Collins, are you still here?”
Charles turned to see a woman rushing into the room, wearing an orange-and-white service uniform. She looked to be in her mid-forties, dark hair pulled into a ponytail, face flushed from exertion.
Her name tag read Isabel Cruz.
She was part of the cleaning staff. Charles vaguely remembered seeing her earlier, quietly working in the background.
“I’m sorry to interrupt,” Isabel said breathlessly. “But I need to find Mr. Collins. It’s urgent.”