“Sealed doesn’t mean buried. I want to know if anyone’s been digging through the hospital archives.”

Julian overheard the end of the call from the hallway. He didn’t catch everything. But he heard enough. His mother wasn’t speaking like a wife trying to shield a grieving husband.

She was speaking like a criminal trying to protect a crime.

Inside the auditorium, families packed the rows with flowers and phones. Mothers cried with pride. Fathers beamed. Alexander felt an agonizing envy — for two years, he had brought flowers to a stone.

When the dean announced the name Maya Ross, the room erupted in applause. The young woman crossed the stage in her black robe with a firm, steady stride — the stride of someone who had learned never to crumble in front of anyone again.

Alexander stood without meaning to. She took her diploma. She paused for a fraction of a second. Her eyes scanned the audience and locked onto his. She didn’t smile.