The teller rotated the screen slightly. A list of monthly transfers filled the display, each one identical in amount, each one marked with the same name.

Patrick Miller.

I left the bank in a daze, the noise of the city fading into something distant and unreal. That night, sleep never came. I lay staring at the ceiling, memories rearranging themselves against my will. The quiet evenings when he sat awake long after I slept. The sadness in his eyes that I had mistaken for indifference. The way he avoided my gaze during the final months of our marriage.

By morning, I knew I needed answers.

I traveled to a small town in western Pennsylvania, where his older sister, Eleanor Grace, lived near rolling farmland and long, empty roads. When I knocked on her door, she opened it slowly, her face crumpling as soon as she saw me.

“I was wondering when you would come,” she said softly