The night was silent except for the hum of the ceiling fan, its blades slicing through the warm air like a slow rhythm. I lay in bed, eyes half-closed, drifting between the remnants of a dream and the reality that was my life. Suddenly, a hand shook my shoulder, pulling me back to consciousness.
I turned to see my wife, her face a silhouette against the dim light filtering through the window blinds. Her eyes were wide, filled with a panic I’d never seen before.
“What’s wrong?” I mumbled, trying to shake off the sleep.
She didn’t respond immediately, instead reaching over to the nightstand and picking up a small, crumpled piece of paper. She handed it to me, her hands trembling slightly.
“You need to see this,” she whispered.
I sat up, the weight of the moment pressing down on me. The paper felt fragile in my hands, as if it held more than just words. I unfolded it slowly, my heart beginning to race.
The words on the page were scrawled in a familiar handwriting, one I’d seen grow from shaky lines in elementary school to the confident strokes of a teenager.
As I read, my breath caught in my throat. The room seemed to shrink, the walls closing in as the impact of each sentence hit me.
“Why didn’t he tell us?” I asked, my voice barely above a whisper.
My wife shook her head, tears brimming in her eyes. “I don’t know,” she replied, her voice cracking.
