I held his hand through every difficult breath until his heart stopped.
Afterward, I sat alone in his empty room, stunned by how much silence someone I’d known for such a short time could leave behind.
Then an elderly man walked in carrying a green backpack.
“Willa?” he asked. “I’m your husband’s attorney. My name is Mr. Sato. He left this backpack for you.”
He placed it in my hands.
I immediately noticed how heavy it was.
Far heavier than it looked.
The lawyer watched my face for a moment, then lowered his voice.
“Alden wasn’t who you thought he was,” the old man said quietly. “He wanted you to know the truth.”
I opened it in the parking garage, alone, sitting sideways in my car with the door open, because I couldn’t wait.
Inside were two things: a hardcover notebook worn soft at the corners — and underneath it, filling the entire bag, ten pounds of them, so many they poured over my hands when I tipped it — thousands of aluminum soda can pull tabs.
