I hung up and felt something shift inside me—subtle but undeniable.
For the first time since the funeral, I wasn’t reacting.
I was moving forward.
The Truth in Documents
The law office sat above a bakery on a quiet street.
I could smell the bread drifting up through the stairwell as I climbed.
The building was old brick, worn smooth by decades of weather, the kind of place that had been there long before trends and would be there long after.
Inside, the office was simple—almost modest.
Wooden furniture.
Framed certificates yellowed at the edges.
No glass walls.
No sharp lines.
A receptionist nodded at me and gestured toward an open door.
I stepped inside, clutching my bag like a lifeline.
The man behind the desk stood when he saw me.
He was older than I expected—hair white, movements unhurried but precise.
His eyes were kind in a way that felt earned, not practiced.
He extended his hand.
When I took it, his grip was firm—grounding.
“Elena,” he said. “I’m glad you came.”
He didn’t ask how I was.
He didn’t offer condolences.
He gestured to a chair and waited until I sat before taking his own seat across from me.
For a moment, neither of us spoke.