Why¿

The rain hadn’t stopped all morning in Boston. The church steps were slick with water, black umbrellas tilting in the wind as if the whole city had gathered to mourn with her. Emily Carter stood at the front, her hands trembling around the white rose she was meant to drop onto her brother’s casket. Her black dress clung to her in the damp air, but she didn’t feel the cold. She felt nothing at all—just a hollow ache where her chest used to be. Michael. Her brother. Her best friend. The one who used to wait outside her lectures with hot chocolate. The one who swore he’d walk her down the aisle someday. And now, here he was, lying beneath polished wood, silent, leaving her with the one question echoing in her skull: Why? Her aunt’s hand pressed into her back, urging her forward. Emily stumbled, legs unsteady, and dropped the rose. It landed soundlessly on the sleek surface of the coffin, sliding a little before settling. She wanted to scream, to pound her fists against the cruel, unanswerable truth, but her throat was too tight. Instead, she lifted her head—and her gaze locked on a pair of eyes in the crowd. He wasn’t family. Not someone she recognized. He was standing near the last pew, tall, broad-shouldered, his dark suit perfectly fitted. His eyes, though—those steady, storm-colored eyes—were watching her as if he felt her pain in his own bones. Emily blinked. Looked away. But her pulse had already shifted. She hated that she even noticed him here, in this sacred, miserable moment. The priest’s voice droned, the ceremony dragged on, and she sank into a pew, numb. When it was over, people whispered condolences, touching her arm, brushing her hand, offering food, prayers, empty words. She smiled faintly, nodded politely, but she wasn’t listening. And then—his voice. “I’m sorry for your loss.” She turned. He was closer now, standing in the aisle beside her. Up close, his features were even sharper—defined jawline, lips pressed in restraint, those eyes softened now with sincerity. “Thank you,” Emily murmured. Her voice cracked, but she forced herself not to cry again. “I knew your brother,” he said, surprising her. “Michael and I had a class together in D.C. a while back. He spoke about you all the time.” Emily’s chest tightened. “He did?” A small smile tugged at the corner of his mouth. “Every time I saw him, he’d bring up his little sister. Said you were brilliant, stubborn, and had a smile that could burn down a city.” She almost laughed. Almost. Her lips twitched, and then the tears came instead. He reached out—not grabbing, just a gentle touch at her shoulder, steadying her like an anchor. “I’m Ethan,” he said softly. “Ethan Walker.” She nodded, wiping her cheeks with her sleeve. “Emily.” “I know,” he said. “Michael wouldn’t let me forget.” The words hit deep, cutting through her grief like a tender knife. For the first time since the accident, she felt warmth bloom against the ice inside her. They stood there in silence, the crowd around them thinning. Ethan’s hand lingered just a second too long before dropping back to his side. His gaze, though, never left hers—intense, unflinching, as though he saw not just her face but every bruise on her soul. And she hated it. She hated that she wanted him to keep looking. When her aunt called her name from the doorway, Emily turned away. She started toward the exit, heels clicking softly against the wooden floor. But before she stepped out into the rain, she glanced back. Ethan Walker was still there, watching her, his eyes asking a question she couldn’t answer.