Inside the bag were three items. A thin folder with stamps, a folded sheet of paper, and an envelope with my name. With trembling hands, I took the first — a medical report.

A few lines, dry and merciless. A diagnosis. Incurable. I read them over and over again, unable to believe my eyes, until the letters blurred with tears.

Below it was a document — a will. Everything he had: the house, the accounts, the stocks — he left it all to me and our son. At the bottom was his signature, even and confident, as if written by a man unafraid of the end.

And finally, I opened the letter. His handwriting. Every letter painfully familiar.

“Emma, if you’re reading this, it means I am no longer alive. Forgive me for leaving like this. I didn’t want you to watch me fade away. The illness left me no choice. I decided to go while I could still breathe on my own and hold a pen. I didn’t want pity, didn’t want you to nurse me like a sick man. I wanted you to remember me alive. Forgive me for everything. For the silence, for the suddenness, for not being able to tell you this in person…”

The letters blurred before my eyes, and with them — the whole world. I pressed the letter to my chest and, for the first time in a year, I didn’t hold back my tears. He was gone, but in that moment I felt him closer than ever.