Everyone turned.
A man stood near the back, rain still clinging to the shoulders of his coat, holding a sealed envelope. His name was Victor Hale, Lena’s attorney, though few people in the room had met him before. He walked forward slowly, not rushing, not hesitating.
“Before anyone leaves,” he said, “there is something Lena instructed me to present today. Her final will—and a message she specifically requested be delivered in person.”
The air in the room shifted again, this time with a different kind of anticipation. Not gossip. Not speculation. Something more definitive.
The burial itself passed in a blur of rain and muted voices, but no one really left. People lingered, drawn back toward the reception room where Victor had arranged to read the will. It was meant to be private, but “private” became meaningless when curiosity and tension outweighed etiquette.
