Chapter 4 - The Dead Mother’s Handwriting
Midnight descended over Beacon Hill like a heavy velvet blanket. Ethan sat alone in the dim light of his downstairs library, staring into the flickering flames of the fireplace, a glass of scotch resting forgotten on the mahogany table. The reality of what he had done—marrying a homeless nurse on a drunken impulse for a million-dollar wager—began to curdle into deep regret. He stood up, pacing the Persian rug, needing air, and decided to check the upper hallway before turning in. As he passed the third-floor guest room, he noticed a sliver of light beneath the door. The door was cracked open an inch. Ethan paused, intending to tell her to turn off the lights, but stopped dead in his tracks at the sight inside. Sarah was sitting cross-legged on the floor, surrounded by dozens of old photographs, handwritten letters, and medical journals spilled out of her battered canvas duffel bag. She was weeping silently, her hands trembling as she clutched a yellowed piece of stationery to her chest. Ethan pushed the door open further, the hinges creaking softly. Sarah gasped, scrambling quickly to sweep the papers back into her bag, but she was too late. One photograph fluttered out and landed face up near Ethan’s polished leather shoes. Ethan froze. The breath rushed out of his lungs as if he had been struck in the chest. It was a photograph of his mother, taken during her final summer at Cape Cod, smiling weakly beside a young nurse wearing a vintage white cap. And written across the back in elegant, looping cursive was unmistakable handwriting Ethan hadn’t seen since his mother’s funeral two years ago.
