“Where is Patrick,” I asked, my voice trembling. “I need to speak with him.”

She said nothing at first. Instead, she stepped aside and returned moments later holding a small wooden box. Her hands shook as she offered it to me.

“He passed away,” she said through tears. “It has been five years.”

The words struck like a physical blow. I felt my chest tighten, my breath shortening. “That is impossible,” I said. “We divorced five years ago.”

She nodded slowly. “He was sick long before that. Terminal cancer. He knew there was no cure.”

The room seemed to tilt. I grasped the edge of a chair to steady myself.

“He did not want you to watch him fade,” she continued. “He did not want your last memories to be hospitals and pain. Leaving you was the hardest thing he ever did, but he believed it was the only way to set you free.”

She placed the box in my lap. Inside was a folded letter, the handwriting instantly familiar.

I opened it with shaking fingers.