The morning light was soft, almost deliberate.
It spilled across the hospital bed like a blessing. Diana lay still, eyes closed, breath shallow but peaceful.
Daniel sat beside her, holding her hand.
He had read to her for hours the night before—short stories, poems, snippets of legal history she used to debate with him.
She hadn't said much.
But when he asked what she wanted to be remembered for, she smiled faintly and said:
> “I want them to say I out-argued silence."
---
When the nurse entered just after dawn, Daniel looked up.
She paused.
He nodded once.
Then leaned forward and whispered, “I'll see you in every truth that stands its ground."
---
Later, he sat in Diana's apartment, a stack of labeled envelopes before him.
Her handwriting was neat. Each name was spelled w
