Chapter 9

Monica's body shook as if an immense burden had suddenly been placed upon her. Her voice emerged raspy and aged, as though she'd grown a decade older in just moments.

"Fine. I get it. You can go now."

She placed her expensive purse down and moved further into the house, her steps slow and careful, as if preparing herself for something difficult.

But as she entered the living area, her body suddenly stopped, her breath catching.

The family picture that had adorned the living room wall for years—our family picture—was missing.

Her high heels tapped against the wooden flooring as she moved to the kitchen, opening the refrigerator with shaking hands. She found it bare—no food, no beverages, and most importantly, no little notes from me.

For twenty years, I'd left my messages: reminders, jokes, or just small notes like, "Remember to eat your breakfast."

But now, there was nothing.