Later, I visited the park where Laura used to jog, the benches there still holding the imprint of her favorite spot under the oak tree. I sat there, the wind rustling the leaves, and opened the photograph from my bag. The image of her smiling, her eyes bright, stared back at me. I pressed the photo to my chest, feeling the weight of memory settle like a stone.
At noon, I received a call from an unknown number. I answered, expecting perhaps a neighbor checking on me. It was a voice I recognized, thin, urgent, belonging to Marco, the accountant from the firm where Daniel worked.
“Antonio, we need to talk about the shares.”
I felt a cold shiver run down my spine, but I kept my voice steady. “What about them?”
He hesitated, then said, “There’s been a mistake. The board thinks you’ve sold your stake.”
My mind raced. The thought of losing what I had built, of being erased from the very thing that had given me purpose, was unbearable. I asked, “When?”
