Eight years earlier, he had been a different man, impatient with inefficiency, addicted to momentum, and deeply, foolishly convinced that control could protect the people he loved. On the afternoon everything broke, he had been arguing over freight logistics when his phone vibrated against the table. He almost silenced it, irritated by the interruption, until something in his chest tightened for no logical reason at all.
The voice on the line belonged to a stranger who spoke too slowly, as if pacing her words might soften their meaning. There had been an accident. His wife had been involved. Emergency services were on site. He should come immediately.
The next hours never arranged themselves properly in his memory. He remembered movement without clarity, the sensation of being pushed forward by urgency, the smell of disinfectant clinging to his clothes, and the weight of Emily’s hand in his while machines filled the silence she no longer could. Doctors spoke with professional sympathy, explaining that her injuries were unsurvivable, that she had likely never felt pain, that nothing more could be done. Michael nodded because nodding was easier than screaming.