“You knew him?”
“No,” she murmured, her voice barely carrying across the shaded lawn of the funeral home. “Not prior to the transplant.”
Her response left me feeling even more unsettled. I glanced down at the sealed envelope in my hand.
“Then why did my son know who your daughter was?”
The woman swallowed hard, taking a slow breath before answering. “Because Emily had been waiting on a donor heart for nearly two years.”
Those words carried a familiar, painful weight. Waiting. Hope. Donor. Recipient. Terms that had belonged strictly to medical updates and strangers until the day my son, Caleb, passed away. Now, they were suddenly woven into the fabric of my own existence.
The woman reached out gently. “Please, read it.”
Part 1: A Letter from Beyond
