He looked so young.
So certain that life would unfold exactly as he planned.
Beneath the photograph lay a folded medical report bearing the name of the private clinic.
My hands began to tremble.
Michael sat beside me.
“Is that the clinic?”
I nodded.
I opened the report.
It was the original examination summary from fourteen years earlier. The small cystic abnormality was described in cautious medical language, and the recommendation for follow-up imaging was clearly written at the bottom.
Then I found another document.
It was a letter addressed to Samuel, dated two weeks after his death.
The clinic had sent a reminder about my recommended follow-up appointment. The letter was polite and ordinary, but someone had written a note across the top in blue ink.
Do not tell Eleanor until I can explain.
I recognized Samuel’s handwriting immediately.
My throat tightened.
Michael read the words over my shoulder.
