I saw the way she sat in silence, staring at nothing.
And one evening, as we sat together, she said quietly:
“They’re waiting for me to die.”
I didn’t know what to say.
So I just held her hand.
A month before she passed, something changed.
She became more… deliberate.
She asked me strange questions.
“Do you trust easily, Claire?”
“Do you believe people get what they deserve?”
“If something happened to me… would you be alright?”
I laughed it off at the time.
I thought she was just reflecting.
I didn’t realize she was preparing.
The night she passed was quiet.
Too quiet.
I found her in her armchair, the television still humming softly in the background.
She looked peaceful.
Like she had simply… let go.
The doctors said it was heart failure.
Quick.
Painless.
Final.
The funeral was small.
I organized everything.
Her children arrived dressed in black, wearing grief like an accessory they could take off whenever it became inconvenient.
They cried just enough to be convincing.
Then they whispered.
Then they left.
I stood there long after everyone was gone, staring at the casket, feeling something inside me break.
I had lost the only family I truly had.
The next morning, everything shattered.
A knock at the door.
Sharp.
Urgent.
Final.
When I opened it, my heart stopped.
Two police officers.
And behind them—Sarah.
Her arms were crossed, her expression burning with accusation.
