The letter sat on my lap like a sleeping serpent.
Quiet. Still. Patient.
I’d been staring at it for what felt like forever, watching how the light from the chandelier caught the folds of the envelope. It glowed faintly, almost mocking me for being too scared to open it.
My name was written in my mother’s handwriting — elegant and soft, yet strong enough to slice through my heart. Evelyn Donovan. She’d always signed things that way. The same delicate loops. The same firm press of the pen on her last name, as though she was staking her claim to a world that often forgot her strength.
Now it was just ink.
Dry and distant.
I swallowed hard, feeling the sharp ache build in my throat. I wanted to open it. I needed to open it.
But my hands refused to move.
Because deep down, I knew that t
