With as much care as I could manage, I slipped the folded paper free. My hands shook. I kept my face composed because I could feel eyes on me, but my body was vibrating with panic.
I walked straight to the bathroom down the hall and closed the door behind me.
The click of the lock sealed out the murmur of voices and the soft music. Under the harsh light above the mirror, I unfolded the paper, smoothing the creases against the counter. It had been folded into tight squares, the kind of folding you do when you carry something close for a long time.
And there, in Greg’s familiar handwriting, I saw my name.
Mara.
Greg was the only person left who still called me Mara the way he did, like it was more than a name. Like it was something he treasured.
My breath caught as I read.
He wrote that if I was holding the note, it meant he did not get to tell me something himself. He apologized. He asked me not to let them bury him with it because it was meant for me.
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