From the street, the house looked joyful. Caterers carried trays of ingredients into the garden kitchen. A florist arranged lilac colored hydrangeas along the stair rails. Musicians were testing soft classical notes in the courtyard. Everything radiated celebration.
I reached the garage and used my spare key to open his sedan. I found my phone quickly. I was about to leave when I noticed a stack of paper cartons tucked behind a tarp. They did not look like supplies for a party. Curiosity told me one thing. Logic told me to walk away. But instinct pulled me toward them.
I pulled the nearest carton toward me. It was surprisingly heavy. I lifted the lid. What I saw inside drained every ounce of warmth from my body.
There were printed memorial posters. Dozens upon dozens of them. All glossy. All identical.
My photograph had been placed prominently in the center. My name was written in bold black letters. Beneath it were the dates.
Celia Hartwell.
1986 to 2025.
Above my name were the words: A Life Remembered with Deep Gratitude.
A short line below stated: Date of Passing. January 14th.
That was tomorrow.
