Later, the hallway is a cold tunnel of white tiles, the smell of disinfectant still lingering.
A nurse, her face flushed, pulls me by the elbow.
“Follow me, Emily, quickly,” she hisses, her shoes squeaking against the floor.
We dart down a side corridor that hums with the low thrum of fluorescent lights.
Caleb is at the end, his silhouette framed by a doorway, his shoulders slumped.
He looks up as we approach, his eyes wide and haunted.
“My hands are shaking,” he admits, voice barely above a whisper.
He reaches into his jacket, fingers trembling, and pulls out a single envelope.
The paper is thick, sealed with a wax stamp bearing an unfamiliar crest.
“It’s addressed to you,” Caleb says, holding it out as if it might burn.
My own name is written in Grace’s looping script across the front.
