°Jeremy’s POV°
The envelope felt heavier than it looked and I just stood there, holding it like it might burn through my skin if I squeezed too tight. My name, written in his handwriting—sharp, deliberate strokes, like he was still trying to control me even from a hospital bed.
The lawyer gave me a quiet nod before walking away, the sound of his shoes fading into the hum of hospital chatter.
And just like that, I was alone again.
I turned toward the reception desk, where a tired-looking nurse was typing on an ancient computer, the keys clicking in that weirdly comforting, and rhythmic way. I cleared my throat, voice barely above a whisper.
“I’m here for… uhhh,” I said. “Mr. Donovan Coleman.”
She looked up, eyes soft with the kind of pity that hurts more than words. “Are you family?”
