Reed
Fresh tears spilled from my eyes before I could even blink them back. They stung, hot and relentless, as they tracked down my cheeks and soaked the collar of my shirt. My breath hitched violently, uneven, like my lungs didn’t know how to work anymore.
The paper in my hands trembled, the bold black print taunting me like it was laughing in my face. I couldn’t tear my eyes away from the bottom of the page, from the name written in that familiar sharp, precise scrawl.
Rayne Hunter.
His signature. Final. Unflinching.
Signed in that effortlessly elegant handwriting I’d memorized over the years—every curve, every stroke. And now it sat there like a coffin lid.
A signature that used to adorn birthday cards, love notes, secret anniversary letters—now signed beneath the death sentence of
